


Under My Skin

by ComeAlongPond14



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing ever happens to John Watson. Until the night that something does. </p><p>And after he meets Sherlock Holmes, a dark stranger surrounded by mystery, nothing will ever be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Remains the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Under My Skin" by Sarah Connors, and chapter titles will come from that, and "Poison" by Alice Cooper. Those are the main theme songs, cool?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First encounters.

“....thinks he may be coming out of remission, but they stopped covering him after his last false alarm at the hospital, so he’s coming to us for his tests now. Can you take him? I’ve still got the little girl whose mum pretended she didn’t have pneumonia for two weeks too long.”

John glanced at the file in Sarah Sawyer’s hand as she held it out to him, and extended his arm, as if on autopilot, to receive it. Even if he’d felt like reminding her that he had his lunch break in 20 minutes, he would take the case. This was what he did with his days. Patient after patient after case after case. Working in a free clinic in Croyden was only a good choice if you really wanted to stay busy. Which he did. So it was alright, then.

Realizing he hadn’t actually answered Sarah, who was eyeing him with concern, John conjured up a big, unnecessarily sincere smile. “Yeah, I’ll see Mr--” He glanced at the file hastily, not wanting to admit he hadn’t really been listening to her before. “Hanes. Go ahead with the girl.”

Sarah was still giving him a worried look, but she nodded and hurried off. He had found this place completely by accident, a few years back, and now he let it consume his time. Certainly preferable to sitting alone in the dark in his too-empty, too-quiet little bedsit. Sure, he had a dog, but he was well-trained and didn’t make too much noise.

After treating the false-alarm cancer patient, he went through the next four names on the sign-in sheet, not wanting to disturb Sarah as she helped the little girl he could hear coughing from the exam room. They got a lot of desperate, poverty-stricken people here. They had to help as many as they could, to the best of their (limited) ability. His lunch break ticked by, unnoticed. He couldn’t remember if he’d packed any food, anyway.

At some point, mid-afternoon, Sarah slipped into his office with a sandwich and coffee. Smiling his thanks, he sat back from the stack of paperwork, tapping the paper cup against hers in a toast, then resumed staring into space absently.

Beside him, Sarah cleared her throat timidly. When he looked at her, she smiled, a little apologetically. “I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, John, but--well, it seems like...like you’re on your own, a lot. I mean. Do you--do you have anyone?”

John considered that question very seriously, wondering what kind of answer she expected. Anyone at all? Sure. He lived with a dog, and his sister and her wife lived in the city--well, across the city, but still, he could see them if he really liked. No parents, but then, he was an adult, he didn’t really mind being looking after himself. He glanced back up at her, shrugging. “Not particularly. S’alright, though. I like solitude.” A lie. So what.

Sarah looked both sad, and oddly a bit hopeful. Giving him what he supposed was a pretty smile, she asked lightly, “Well, I was wondering--would you like to get coffee sometime?”

Oh. Right.

John tended to forget that people did things like go on dates. That people were normal and sociable and enjoyed interacting with one another. He hadn’t felt the desire to do any of that in a very long time. But Sarah was a sweet woman, kind and warm-hearted, and clearly slightly oblivious. He didn’t want to be too hard on her.

He did manage a real smile this time, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “I’m really flattered, Sarah, but, uh--well, to be honest, I sort of, ah, bat for the other team.”

It took a second, but then her eyes lit with understanding, and she actually blushed, laughing out loud. “Oh! Oh, John, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how I didn’t realize! Right, of course. That’s totally alright. I mean, the offer still stands, if you ever want to go out on the town for an evening, I’d love to hang out, maybe get a drink, alright?”

No. “Yeah, definitely, I’ll let you know when the impulse hits, eh?” It won’t. But she looked pleased, nodding and trotting off.

Near closing time, the bell over the door rang, and the clinking of dog tags caused him to lean out of his office; they weren’t allowed to admit non-service civilian animals.

“Clara,” he said in surprised greeting, as his sister’s rather flustered wife bustled in from the street. Clara was still quite attractive, for an easily-stressed schoolteacher in her late 30s. John had always liked her, and had been sure she’d be a good influence on his rather reckless older sister.

Not good enough to curb the drinking, though, apparently.

Clara smiled distractedly, offering him the leash attached to the patient German Shepherd who had remained obediently beside her. When John took the strap, though, the dog obligingly shifted over to his side, sitting down comfortably now that he was back with his master. John chuckled, scratching the soft fur behind his ears. “Hey, Stamford,” he greeted his companion softly.

His sister-in-law sounded like she was at the end of her rope, again. “I’m really sorry, John, it’s just--Harry’s had another shite week, and she’s storming about, I was afraid she’d--I don’t know, hit him, or kick him or something, she gets so irritable when she’s--”

That sentence cut off and hung between them, and John nodded, stroking to the dog more to ground himself than anything else, now. “It’s fine,” he assured her. “I’m staying to work after hours, he can nap in my office. Thanks, Clara.” He paused, not wanting to offer, but knowing he really did have to. “Do you, do you need help--?”

Clara’s lips thinned, knowing and hating that they shared the burden of Harry’s addiction, and her unwillingness to get better. “No,” she said with a sigh. “Thanks, though. See you later, John.” And then she was gone again.

 

***

A few hours after sundown, long after Sarah had locked up and left, John found himself alone in the silence again. He sat in his office, wrapping up the endless paperwork that accompanied being good samaritans these days, and wishing it wouldn’t be unethical to pour some whiskey while he worked. Stamford lay by the door, eyes flicking open and shifting to his master every few moments, as the paper shuffled.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a flicker of motion, and he looked up to stare at the screen of the security camera that rested on the corner of his desk. At the moment, it was showing the alleyway into which their back door opened, mostly used for trash and supply deliveries. But there was nothing there, except maybe a spider web starting to cover the lens. Dismissing, he returned to the papers.

And then his hand jerked violently as Stamford gave an almighty bark of alarm, jumping up and scrambling down the hallway to the back door. He could hear the dog snarling and barking softly, and John groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the cane that he rarely let himself use as he hobbled after Stamford.

“Ford, what the bloody hell are you on about?” he grumbled, grabbing the dog’s collar and trying to settle him. Normally the dog quieted as soon as John acknowledged whatever concern he was voicing--he’d been trained as a military dog, he knew how to obey--but this time, he seemed almost panicked. He was straining toward the door, growling and barking low in his throat.

Sighing, John shoved the dog back, tugging the door open and stepping outside to look around. There was nothing there as far as he could see, and Stamford refused to step outside. Muttering in annoyance, he shut and locked the door, turned off the outside and hall lights, and returned to his office, closing them both in. Stamford stayed by the door, ears up, tail stiff. John ignored him.

But he couldn’t really ignore the sound of glass shattering as someone broke in through the back door.

Stamford began shaking and pawing at the door, snarling again. John frowned, grabbing his cane and his mobile as he went to investigate, fingers hovering over the keypad, ready to dial 999.

The fogged glass pane had been punched through, a jagged hole left just above the door handle. The lock had been undone, and now the door stood a few inches ajar. Tightening his grip on the handle of his cane, John turned, surprised to see a thin trail of blood splatter, leading from the door to the supply closet near the exam rooms. Approaching slowly, wondering why the hell he wasn’t phoning the police already, he reached for the door, pulling it open.

He really wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find, but somehow this wasn’t it.

The man in the closet was tall, but incredibly thin; somehow John knew at a glance that despite his intimidating height, the stranger wouldn’t necessarily be able to take him in a fight. He had thick dark curls, and pale skin, going by the glimpse of his face visible above the collar of the long dark coat he wore.

More importantly, he was bleeding rather heavily, judging from the small smears on the floor, and the shelf from which he was stealing supplies. His breathing was also labored, and he seemed to be trying to bandage his arm one-handed.

John cleared his throat, but the stranger didn’t turn around. He did speak, however, and it was clear he’d known the instant John was there. “If you’re going to phone the police, at least let me wrap this first, if you don’t mind. I don’t wish to die in a squad car.”

John felt several things simultaneously. The man’s voice was--well, it was sex and silk and fire, and he’d never heard anything like it in his life. He was also impressed that someone who was apparently badly injured wasn’t panicking or attacking him. And he was suddenly very, very curious about the intruder.

“I can help with that, if you like,” he said, his voice firmer then he’d expected it be. At his words, the stranger turned around.

If it were possible to be pinned in place and surgically examined just by a glance, then this man had that power. Eyes the color of sea glass--multiple shades of sea glass--swept over John in one quick stroke, then snapped back to his face. It was obvious from the tension in his expression that he was not about to trust John, but he didn’t really have to.

John took a step back, out of the closet, raising his hands clearly into view and setting the cane and his mobile on the countertop behind him. “Nothing funny, I promise. I just want to help. You’ll still be bleeding pretty badly if you wrap that wound over the coat, you’ll need to take it off for me.” When the man didn’t move, John pointed to his keys and ID tag, hanging on the hooks behind the counter. “Look, I can show you my ID, I’m a doctor here at the clinic. My name is John, John Watson.” _Probably shouldn’t have given a total stranger--a wounded stranger--my name. But I work in a free bloody clinic, loads of people living rough know me. Not like he knows my address. Oh, shut up_.

The man suddenly turned around, emerging from the closet and coming out to face John. He was still staring with unnerving intensity into his eyes. And then, suddenly, he relaxed marginally.

“Thank you. I would appreciate help, yes.”

And then he was moving, shrugging off the coat and draping it over one of the cheap plastic chairs scattered throughout the hallway. Beneath it, he was wearing what had probably been a very expensive, high quality button-down shirt, but now it was ripped and blood-stained. The left sleeve had a massive tear in it, exposing a rather ugly gash, which was the source of the heavy bleeding. His hands, too, were stained scarlet, assumably from clutching the laceration.

John clenched his jaw, letting himself slip into doctor mode. “Come into the exam room, it’ll be easier if you’re up on a table,” he said, gesturing for the stranger to go through the next door. Still watching him with a quiet sort of wariness, the man obliged. Perching on the edge of the plastic-wrapped exam table, he held his arm up, breaking eye contact for the first time as he peered rather ruefully at the bloody wound above his elbow.

“I liked this shirt,” was his only comment. John snorted in amusement, tugging on his gloves and getting to work, grabbing disinfectant and gauze. “Well, then, I’m sorry to ask, but mind if I cut off the sleeve?” At the stranger’s nod, he took surgical scissors to the fabric, baring the man’s arm from the shoulder down. Underneath the smears of crimson, the skin was white as snow, and surprisingly cool. John frowned. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, mate, how the hell did you get this?"

Those stunning eyes cut to his face, scanning it quickly as if suspicious of his curiosity. “A bullet grazed me,” he said at last, succinct and almost challenging. Like he was waiting for John to overreact. The doctor said nothing.

He started with cleaning, using diluted disinfectant to mop up the blood around the immediate wound, focusing just on cleaning enough space to mend the damage. Aside from a slight hiss of pain, the stranger didn’t react to the chemicals. John reached for the suture kit, raising it to get a nod of approval before he started on the stitches. The offer of anesthetic was dismissed, however. Shrugging--he didn’t care, this case was definitely outside the usual ring-around of insurance and law--he threaded the needle and set to it, neatly making five small stitches. The cut was deep, making him wonder exactly how close the bullet had come to hitting its target.

Somehow--God only knew how--the man seemed to know what direction his thoughts had gone. “Would have caught me in the shoulder, but I managed to duck to the side. Not far enough, but at least it’s better than digging the shell out of my own arm.”

John blinked rapidly, stunned by his matter-of-fact tone. “True,” he agreed finally. “And you’re lucky. This did graze fairly deeply. Could easily have nicked the brachial artery.” Tying off the last stitch, he snipped the thread and dabbed at the trickle of blood that had welled up. “And then you’d have been fucked.”

The stranger gave a startled little laugh, the sound just as attractive as his voice. He flexed his arm gently, eyeing the way the flesh strained against the black threads. John swatted him, earning a shocked stare--and he couldn’t help but laugh as well, at the complete disbelief in the man’s eyes over being struck, even so lightly. “Stay still,” he chided, lifting the strip of bandage he’d just cut. “It needs to be wrapped, or you’ll go ripping the stitches out, or God knows what else.”

Tying the wound firmly, he taped it off, then turned to peruse the shelf. “You’ll need to take some antibiotics to keep it from getting infected...” he muttered, collecting the appropriate pill bottles. “And you might be tough, but cuts like this can be a bitch as they’re healing, so I’ll include some strong pain meds, take them if you have to--don’t be a martyr.” He turned back, offering the bag. “And no drug abuse, please, this is exactly how much you need. If you come around begging for more, I’ll know what you’re playing at.”

The stranger chuckled, accepting the bag with a small nod. John gasped as he saw the pale hand that closed around the folded top of the paper sack. “Shite--your finger’s broken, mate.”

Those beautiful glasz eyes dropped to stare impassively at the slight deformity, and not-so-slight bruising, that was affecting the index and middle fingers of his right hand. It looked as though someone had attempted to yank the first finger off his hand.

The stranger grimaced, his cupid’s bow lips pursing in an expression of mild distaste. “Ah. Yes, that happened before I was shot at and narrowly missed being killed by my own gun.” He paused, appeared to reconsider his words. “Well. Not actually my gun, but I was using it for the evening. Now I’ll have to replace it.” He scowled at his broken finger, as if it were to blame for the loss of the gun. “Think you could help again, doctor?”

John was still reeling from the fact that the man hadn’t even noticed his finger being broken, but the question snapped him out of it. “‘Course,” he said, waving him back to the table. “Do you--do you want anything, this time? It’ll hurt pretty badly to reset it.”

A shrug. “Stitches, snapping fingers back, it’s all just nerves telling me there’s damage done. I can see that myself, so I just tune the biological indicators out.”

John knew his expression must look rather foolish, but he was frankly stunned--and impressed. The stranger had to be the most fascinating man he’d ever encountered in the clinic.

Stepping in front of him, he held out his hand, licking his lips as the cool fingers slid into his open palm. Pulling a pen from his breast pocket, he placed it between the two bruised digits as a barrier, then took a deep breath. “Count of three. One...two--”

With a godawful snapping sound, he pushed the finger back, feeling the tremor that rippled through the other man’s body as the digit went back into place. A soft grunt was the only sound he made, his face temporarily tightening, before he let his shoulders slump. “That was unpleasant,” he remarked at last, his voice low and even more musical. John half-smiled. “Let me put a splint on it,” he said, surprised to hear it sound like a question, rather than the instruction of a doctor.

The stranger glanced at him, and simply nodded. John set the fingers quickly, using the simplest style of splint they had. “Just try to be gentle with it for a few weeks,” he said finally, unable to say exactly why his chest felt tight with a strange sort of sadness.

The man was smiling faintly at him, something oddly soft in his incredible eyes. “You are quite something else, Dr. Watson.”

John shrugged at the compliment, stepping back. “Anything else ghastly happen to you?” he asked, trying for lightheartedness.

The stranger stood, then winced and looked down, muttering a curse as he pressed long, pale fingers to his right leg. Sitting back on the edge of the table, he tugged up the leg of his black trousers, exposing a fairly sloppy knife wound to his calf. “Hm,” he said, as if utterly surprised to discover the injury. “Must’ve been when I kicked the bastard off of me. I’d forgotten he had a knife. Couldn’t have actually been aiming for me, that’s just messy. Lucky shot.”

John barked out a laugh, but he was already moving to grab the peroxide and bandages. “You seem to have interesting friends, mate.”

A distant look came over the unconventionally handsome features. “Certainly not a friend, in this case. Shame, though. This was a fairly expensive suit.” He grumbled as John wiped up the blood, inspecting the depth of the wound. “No stitches needed,” he announced, working swiftly to seal a gauze patch over the slice, then wrap and tape a bandage around the pallid leg.

Glancing up, he shivered when he found those piercing eyes fixed on his face again, as if he were the most interesting thing the man had ever seen. John smiled self-consciously, pointing at the left side of the stranger’s face. “Going to have a proper shiner, there, too,” he said softly, noting the beginnings of a dark bruise forming around the eye socket.

The man glanced at the small mirror over the exam room sink, smirking at the darkening skin. “Mm. You should see the other guy.” His nose wrinkled slightly. “Well. He’s actually probably dead, now.”

There was a rather heavy pause, though John’s hands didn’t slow down as he added another brand of antibiotic to the bag, clearly labeling which was for each wound. He could feel the stranger studying him still.

“Why didn’t you phone the police?” His voice was soft, purely curious, and somehow at ease--clearly, he was sure there was no danger of that happening anymore. John paused for a heartbeat, trying to determine the answer himself, but nothing came to mind. Blank and oddly calm, he finished putting the bag together, resealing it and turning around with a shrug as his reply.

Eyes narrowing, the stranger suddenly smirked very slightly, and that was John’s only warning that he was about to be blown away.

“Your former military, that’s certain from your bearing, but you’re very obviously trained primarily for medical work--so army doctor. You walk with a slight limp, and you were carrying a cane, but you don’t seem to mind it, particularly now that there’s something engaging your full attention, so it’s at least partially psychosomatic, implying traumatic circumstances for the original injury. Military, psychosomatic injury from traumatic experience? Served overseas, then. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John managed to find his voice, uttering a very faint, “Afghanistan--” before he was cut off.

“Ah, yes. The trauma surrounding your leg injury has left you unable to resume normal civilian life--or formal medical work, without clearance from a therapist, and since you’re clearly not overcoming the psychosomatic limp, I’d wager you have no intention of attending the therapy you’d need to get that clearance. No interest in jumping through their hoops, hm? Thought not. As for this rather odd interaction we’re having, well, this is a rare amount of contact, for you, isn’t it? You don’t go in for social, well, anything. No emotional attachments.”

His gaze leapt to Stamford, still lying peacefully in the hallway, watching them almost boredly. “...then again, this dog means a lot to you, obviously a strong bond there. No humans, though. What about family? That phone by your cane, that’s more expensive than a man in your position would spend your money on. Relative...? No? Close family member. Sibling. Not close, then? No, I s’pose not, or you’d likely have newer clothes, and you wouldn’t need to bring the dog to work--or do clinics allow that, these days?”

John found his voice again, ignoring the last bit, which he assumed was rhetorical. “...That...was amazing.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course it was. Extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“‘Piss off.’”

Startled, he laughed, and the stranger joined in. Wiping his eyes--when was the last time he had just relaxed and laughed with someone?--John found himself gazing avidly at the man, intensely curious how someone could be so clearly brilliant, and yet...so totally bizarre.

It suddenly struck him, as they stood staring at each other for a long moment, that the man was also quite good-looking, if you didn’t mind the black eye.

Outside the doorway, Stamford suddenly whined, as if asking what was going on in there. Abruptly the man turned, picking up his coat and easing it on over his right arm, though he kept his left out of the sleeve. He smiled as he turned to John, offering him a quick, impressively firm handshake, despite the splint on his right hand. “Thank you, Dr. Watson, for your kindness. And for your discretion. I imagine this could have been terrifying to some people. But I am very grateful for your care.”

A little winded by the entire situation, John swallowed hard, sucking in a breath and speaking up before he lost his nerve. He suddenly felt like a bloody teenager again.

“Uh--look, mate, if this--this whole, getting the shite kicked out of you, if that’s a normal occurrence for you, and you can’t go to the hospital--which, from the sound of it, you really can’t--well. You can come here, alright? After hours, if you need to, you can come here, and I’ll help you. I’m, I’m usually here late. No questions asked, I’ll help. Anytime.”

The stranger gazed him in silence for so long, he began to get worried. But there was no consternation, or even residual distrust, in that stare. It was simply...evaluating.

Then he smiled at John, and the bottom fell out of his stomach as a thousand butterflies found their way in. “Thank you, John Watson,” was the only reply.

And with a swirl of dark fabric and unruly curls, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right! New story. Still uncertain how it will end, but no joke, I LOVE THIS ONE. So enjoy! Also, I'm proud, this took up nine pages on Google docs. XD
> 
> Screw it, I'm just including the whole soundtrack in each chapter. It will likely change periodically, this is just the playlist I've assembled so far, to inspire me as I write. Atmosphere, you know.
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]
> 
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -[Alice Cooper's "Poison" will be the official song of chapter 7]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]


	2. You Pull Me In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mystery deepens. And looks good in a scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, sorry it's short, with this storyboard I tried way harder, but some of them will just be that way. And sorry it's taking a while to get to smutty stuff. XD But hey, maybe my plot isn't too bad?
> 
> Please comment, keeps me going!
> 
> Also, this isn't really ST, so I don't want to add it below, BUT; this is hilarious. I needed to get into the headspace for dealing with this Sherlock (I love mah bb when he's dark XD), and this just. This pleases me. Cause it's funny. So enjoy!  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaJssbyaO9I&list=PL5S2Z5o-GHO6XZCe5P_vcpXG0zjZwxW5f&index=1

For two days following his bizarre encounter with the stranger (he hadn’t come up with a name that suited the phantasmal man yet), John couldn’t stop thinking about him. It went beyond reflecting on the exchange--not to mention the reasonably worrying injuries he’d treated--and had morphed into more of an obsession.

But not necessarily in a bad way. If he was honest, John found himself experiencing more than a few fantasies starring the pale-eyed stranger. Something about him--and the way he had simply appeared, and then vanished again, mysterious and dangerous and so utterly unfazed--had captivated the doctor. It held his attention thoroughly enough that once or twice, in those following days, John had to slip into the employee bathroom for some privacy while he thought about those eyes, those long pale fingers. _Bloody hell_.

Sarah noticed, which was both amusing and mortifying. After his third instance of sneaking away, during the second day following the extraordinary meeting, she was waiting in his office with a patient file, and a broad grin.

He pretended not to notice the latter, accepting the file and signing off on it, but she was apparently going to persist. “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” she asked, nudging him playfully. “Look at you, all star-eyed and dreamy! I mean, normally you’re sort of up in the clouds anyway, but this--this is different. Someone’s caught your fancy. Who is he, then?”

John opened his mouth, then let it snap shut, quite unsure how to reply. Even if the situation had been normal enough to giggle over with a coworker--and it certainly hadn’t been--he didn’t even know the man’s name. Hell, he didn’t even know if the stranger was gay. Might have just been a charming bastard who knew how to con his way into getting free medical attention when he was badly hurt. That was more likely than a mysterious, disconcertingly beautiful man literally stumbling into John’s life, the way he had.

Sarah was laughing at him. “Good Lord, can’t even focus long enough to share! Right, well, just don’t mess up with any patients, alright? You can fantasize on your own time.” John flushed, and she gave him a sassy wink as she left the office. Leaning back in his chair, John dragged his hands down over his face, mentally berating himself. _This is ridiculous_. He was a grown man, a professional, and he did not need to fixate so pathetically on some random encounter, like a sodding teenager.

Still. It was quite nice fuel for his daydreams. He hadn’t really realized it until now, but standard material just didn’t get him going anymore. He couldn’t imagine going to a club and enduring loud music, and the stares he’d get for his age and his limp, just for a hook-up. And he didn’t really fancy sitting around in a coffee shop waiting for some fairytale meet-cute. Besides, who could he be waiting for? He was a bit past the days of university dating and hoping to fall in love. No, the stranger was really the most exciting thing he’d encountered in years--and he certainly was intoxicating. Even if the entire thing was turning into something simply invented in John’s bored imagination.

The third morning following that night, he arrived at work to find the rest of the staff gathered in the front lobby, all watching the television set that hung above the room in a security cage. Arching a curious eyebrow at Sarah--who just shook her head worriedly and jerked her chin at the telly--he joined them, distractedly punching in his time card and putting on his ID tag.

On the screen, the news announcers were describing what was obviously a brutal murder. “...who had been under investigation in several cases of arson. Wilkes was found at the scene of the most recent fire, which is certainly incriminating, but his death was clearly far from accidental. The police believe Wilkes was tortured, then killed at a separate location, which appears to have been set after Wilkes was already dead. The location of this fire is inconsistent with the pattern which led the police to investigate Wilkes in the first place, prompting them to assume that Wilkes’ killer, or killers, are responsible for this fire, perhaps as an attempted cover. As for the murder itself, the police disclosed that it was clearly the work of professionals, and that it mimics several other recent torture-murder cases, raising the concern of a potential serial murderer.”

John watched impassively, wondering who would have murdered the arsonist--he knew a bit about the case, personally he was convinced Wilkes had been guilty--but he couldn’t fathom why they’d bother leaving the body with a fire. Unless it was some sort of twisted statement about not letting Wilkes get away with his previous fires. Maybe the killers were warning petty criminals off, reminding people who really ran things. John chuckled at the thought, then glanced around self-consciously, doubting his colleagues would be amused by his apathy toward the dead man’s story. He wasn’t jaded, not really--just...well. Fuck it, maybe he was.

He was draping his coat over the back of his office chair, contemplating the idea of pretending he’d taken up smoking to sneak a fifteen minute break--he already didn’t want to deal with people today, Christ, he was off to a good start--when the bell over the front door jingled. He didn’t pause in setting down his cane and work bag, knowing Sarah would call if he was needed.

Then he froze as a familiar voice, low and too smooth to be _legal_ , fuck, spoke softly from the vicinity of the front desk. “...found her wandering in the streets this morning, she has severe burns, scars, and a bad cough. I brought her as soon as you opened, she didn’t seem to want to go to the hospital.”

John could hear Sarah replying, thanking the stranger, rambling on about taking the girl for burn treatment, but he wasn’t paying much attention. He registered Murray hurrying past him to help Sarah, and then the two were rushing passed again, carrying between them the slumped figure of a girl who was badly beaten, barely dressed, and quite severely burned. Even her hair was charred and blackened.

The stranger stood in the lobby, impressively tall and imperious for someone who had just delivered a traumatized woman to a free clinic. He also looked devastating, which John found unfair, in the circumstances; it was difficult to keep his wits when the man looked far better than he had during their first meeting, and even better than in John’s imaginings (he stamped down on that thought quickly, recalling the stranger’s uncanny ability to read everything in his face--he was _not_ sharing his wet dreams with their subject, matter whose name he didn’t even know, thank you very much!).

The man had not so much as glanced at him, instead watching through the window of the greeting desk until Sarah and Murray had vanished through the back door. The instant it snapped shut behind them, however, his gaze swung directly to meet John’s--and he smiled broadly, with complete familiarity.

“Dr. Watson,” he said in greeting, and his voice hadn’t changed an octave, smoke and silk, and Christ, John was hard. Well, that was just bloody brilliant, wasn’t it.

He managed a smile, pretending his hard was not pounding. “Hello again.” His gaze jumped to where his colleagues had disappeared, because while he might be just a little starstruck by the attractive newcomer, that did not negate years of medical and military training to care and provide for those in pain. “Uh, who was that, exactly?”

The stranger’s expression tightened, his pale lips thinning slightly. Not a subject he was keen on, then. Then his still-stunning glasz eyes flickered to the television, and John followed his glance automatically, tuning back in to what the announcers were saying, still about the Wilkes murder.

“...believe that Wilkes had his seventeen-year-old daughter with him. The girl’s mother reported her missing when her father failed to bring her home on time last night, and witnesses say they believe the girl was, in fact, at the site of the fire with her father, prior to his torture and death. No witnesses reported seeing anything of the attack, and no one knows where the girl was at the time of Wilkes’ death, or whether she is, in fact, still alive...”

John felt his jaw drop as a second photo joined the one of Wilkes in the corner, showing an burn-free, undamaged version of the girl who had just been carried into the back room right in front of him. Feelings of confusion, mild concern, and quite an acute sense of fascination were suddenly competing for his attention.

“Well--alright, uh, why did you have a murder victim’s kid with you--?” he turned around to ask, but his words fell to an empty room. The stranger was gone. Again.

***

Later, Sarah would tell John that the girl was Wilkes’ daughter, that they’d been having a row on the way back to her mother’s house when the car was struck, then hijacked. She had been hooded, and had never seen anything of their abductors. Hadn’t a clue her father had even been tortured or killed, so that was unpleasant news to break. But at least she could be returned to her mother. John did his best to console Sarah, but internally he was still reeling. He had a very powerful growing suspicion as to why the stranger had had the daughter, but he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge that possibility yet, even in the privacy of his own mind.

***

Another two days passed without incident, and he began to wonder if this would be the norm, this wraith-like man just dropping into his life with no warning or information, just an enigma in a dark coat and blue scarf.

 _Huh_. He hadn’t realized he’d noticed the scarf. It definitely emphasized the eyes.

Oh, Jesus, he was a teenage girl.

Three nights after the fire, and Wilkes’ suspicious murder, John found himself working late again. There was still paperwork to sign off on about the daughter; in particular how she’d come to them, and why she hadn’t gone to a real hospital. They really had no answers to give, since no one but John even knew the man’s face who’d delivered her--and he had not been about to disclose that. They were just a perfectly innocent free clinic that did their best to save lives. No affiliation to murderers or arsonists or abductors, whatsoever.

 _Bugger_. He’d have to word it better than that.

The buzzer rang, the small one connected at the back door, where their medical supplies were delivered. Distracted, John glanced at the security monitor, flicking the switch to go to the appropriate camera.

He jerked in surprise as he recognized the tall figure leaning against the doorframe, head bowed to rest against the glass, one hand raised to press against the freshly replaced fogged glass pane (on record, there was a break-in and theft of a few first aid supplies. John had deleted all video evidence of his encounter with the stranger).

Then his eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward to peer more closely at the screen. There was a worrisome dark smudge around the bare hand on the glass, and as John watched, the man let his arm fall a bit--but the shadow remained on the glass. His hands were stained again. It was fairly easy to guess with what.

Swearing, John leapt up and bolted to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -[Alice Cooper's "Poison" will be the official song of chapter 7]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]
> 
> NEW:  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme. Here. Have a sexy visual: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuuZIN0OlpI&list=PL5S2Z5o-GHO6XZCe5P_vcpXG0zjZwxW5f&index=10
> 
> Also, can anyone explain how to make YouTube links one clickable word?


	3. I Can Feel (We've Got a Chemistry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stranger returns. Or should we say, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't going to write, but I'm spending all day tomorrow doing the joyful dance of airports and luggage (le terror, my wedding dress is going into a checked bag….I'm so scared of losing it!), so I thought I'd post now, since I doubt I will tomorrow.
> 
> Thoughts on comments made: so I know the boys seem OOC here. My view: John is not gay, so making him so strongly attracted to Sherlock and aware of it IS a bit OOC. I tried to balance it. As for Sherlock, I am picturing the man who told Molly he wants the best for her in The Empty Hearse, kissing her on the cheek. Sweet, genuine, almost flirty, but still a terrifying badass.
> 
> …It's occurring to me, frankly, that this is not my best story. I think Sparks Fly probably flowed better. Please comment anyway, I like love. <3

Once again, the stranger was remarkably calm and collected for someone with a heavily bleeding wound on their person. When John opened the back door, he was greeted with a strained but sincere smile, and a cheerful, “Evening, Dr. Watson. I do hope your offer of assistance still stands. Could certainly use some at the moment...”

He stepped aside wordlessly to admit him, watching anxiously as he leaned against the wall, his breathing uneven. John turned off the outside and hall lights again, locking the door for good measure. It would not do to have anyone see their lights still on, and come nosing about.

At his wave of encouragement, the stranger crossed slowly into the same exam room they’d used before. He was moving gingerly, favoring his left side, and John stayed out of his way as he eased off the scarf and coat, sinking into the doctor’s chair in the corner, rather than climbing onto the table. There was a substantial tear in his (again, clearly expensive) dark purple shirt, and the flesh that was visible beneath it was smeared red.

Leaning back in the chair, the man let out a long breath, pressing one hand over the blood-soaked area with a slight wince. “Hell of a night,” he commented.

John couldn’t help but chuckle, but the sound was weak--he’d rarely seen someone still conscious with that much blood on the outside of their body. “I assume that could use some patching up,” he said at last, nodding at the site.

The pale eyes were gleaming with pain as they shifted to meet John’s gaze, exhaustion written in his features. “Mm, yes. I was at once equally, and slightly less lucky than last time.” He leaned forward, flinching again as the fabric dragged over the damaged skin. “The bullet actually hit me this time.”

Somehow, the utterly factual way he delivered this information seemed to clear away the fog of intrigue--and yes, attraction--that had been hovering over John. He had no idea who this man was, or what the bloody hell kind of life he led that resulted in bullet wounds and knife fights happening literally every few nights.

But he was Dr. John H. Watson, and he knew how to fix this.

He cleared his throat, feeling that blissful sort of calm sink in, the adrenaline and the muscle memory of thousands of stitches and bandages and surgeries and injuries rushing to the surface of his mind, and making it almost mechanically easy to get to work.

“Right. Shirt open, please, off if you’re not opposed. Is the bullet still inside?”

The stranger was already obeying, undoing the buttons of his shirt with small jolts and winces each time his side pulled. “No,” he murmured, painstakingly sliding the left shoulder off, and leaving the shirt dangling from his right arm. “Through and through, at least as far as I am aware. I could be wrong. I’ve never actually been hit before. Being grazed feels vastly different, I must say. Hurts less, too. Perhaps I got lazy, assuming this wouldn’t be much worse.”

 _Well, that is....rather fucked up_.

John shrugged it off, going to the shelves for the necessary supplies. “Okay. I’m going to clean the blood away, disinfect the wound site, then check for shrapnel. You probably won’t like that part, I’m afraid. Sorry in advance.”

Flecks of blue topaz swirled in the intense gaze that settled on his face. “It’s fine. Do what you need to.”

Taking a breath, John moved in. Cleaning away the blood wasn’t so bad, since it didn’t cause his patient any pain. Disinfecting was a little more difficult, because if he was honest, he had no way to be certain the stranger wouldn’t lash out or harm him if the pain was too much. Normally he had a second employee with him for security, when injuries were this severe. But this was hardly a normal case.

Looking for shrapnel went quickly, thankfully. There was an exit wound, and the damage was clean and straightforward. The bullet had gone right through the meat, no organs or bones struck. After a careful cleaning, John set to work stitching both sides of the injury, teeth clenched in sympathy, since once again his offer of any kind of anesthetic was turned down. But the stranger was remarkably stoic, his fingers clutching the arms of the chair white-knuckled, and remaining totally silent.

As he ran the needle through the pale skin, John couldn’t help but notice the fairly intimidating variety of older scars that were scattered across the man’s torso, some better-healed than others--and some that were quite recent. His body told a dark and far more violent story than his apparent easy nature and pleasant humor would indicate.

Tying off the last stitch on the front side, John was pressing the gauze pad over the line of black exes and red flesh when a thought occurred to him. He snorted, glancing up to meet the curious look directed his way.

“I don’t mean to pry, of course, but--d’you think I could have a name to call you by? I mean, if this is gonna happen often, you dropping by with serious injuries and no story.”

A slow smirk curved the sides of the stranger’s mouth, and his whole face seemed to brighten from it. He had a sort of manic look to him, but it was still undeniably charming.

“And you don’t think that would be getting in too deep, Dr. Watson?” There was undercurrent there, a slight warning--not a threat, not that John was prying; but rather, that he might not want to know who this man really was. John’s heart accelerated slightly.

Feeling bold, he met the glinting blue eyes and answered softly, “I have a feeling I passed by ‘in too deep’ the moment we met, don’t you?” The overwhelming urge to drop his gaze, to escape from that stare, flooded through him, but he repressed it. “And you can call me John, if you like.”

There was a terrifically laden silence, both men seeming to search for something in the other, yet neither quite knowing just what that would be. John felt as if he were standing on a cliff somewhere, debating whether to take the risk and experience freefall, or just go run back to comfort and routine.

The stranger’s expression turned thoughtful, and his smirk had softened into a genuine smile as he continued to regard John. “Normally I’d just offer a fake name, but...oddly, I really am tempted to tell you.” His cheeks dimpled with a surprisingly innocent little smile. “What is it about you that’s so captivating, John Watson?”

John shrugged self-consciously, smiling back at him as he applied medical tape to the bandage now covering the stitches. “I’d understand if you went with a false name,” he said, and he was glad his voice didn’t sound disappointed in the least--he really did understand, even if he was disturbed by the implication of the kind of danger the stranger must be into. “It would just be easier than continuing to use ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ in my head.”

The instant the words left his mouth, a furious blush rushed into his cheeks, and John wanted to sink right through the floor and vanish. Or perhaps die. He definitely didn’t want to look up. “I-- _bollocks_ , sorry, that was--”

To his surprise, the stranger laughed, clear and open, and obviously a little pleased. Cool fingers brushed his cheek, making John jerk in surprise, looking up to meet the glowing smile aimed at him. “Quite alright.”

In the distance, a police siren went off. The stranger stiffened, his gaze leaping away from John’s and his hand falling back to the chair armrest. As the sound moved past their location, he seemed to relax marginally again. John felt himself smiling a trifle sadly, and he couldn’t quite manage to erase the expression.

“I don’t need to know your name,” he said out loud, and he meant it. “I really do just want to help you.”

“Sherlock.”

“I--what?”

“My name is Sherlock. It’s my real name, I promise.”

“...I believe it. Who the hell names their kid Sherlock?”

The taller man grinned. “Well, it’s more interesting than John, thank you.” John poked lightly at the bandaged wound, making Sherlock jolt with a little sound of mixed pain and amusement. “Oy! Thought you were a doctor, not a sadist.”

Grinning at their banter, John rose to return the supplies to their shelves, asking over his shoulder, “So, then, any other damage in need of attention, tonight?”

Behind him, the stranger--Sherlock--was pulling the sleeve of his shirt back on, moving carefully and scowling down at his side. When the bandage pulled and he hissed softly, John stepped forward, helping to tug the sleeve into place, then set to work doing up the buttons. It felt so oddly domestic, and yet completely acceptable, to help Sherlock get re-dressed. When John looked up, Sherlock was watching him with dark eyes.

“Why are you so willing to help me, John?” His voice was low, purely curious once again, as if John were a fascinating specimen he was studying in a lab. “You don’t ask what I do to get so battered, but you help me without protest.”

Surprised by the question, even though it was of course a perfectly sound one, John blinked and stepped away from the taller man. His voice sounded strange to him, tense. “You were right about me,” he said in answer. “About the trauma, I mean. I was in Afghanistan. And it...it took its toll on me. I don’t trust people, and I don’t like trying to get close to anyone. Don’t even know what to do with myself, besides helping from a distance. I’m good at medical work. So I do it. Impersonal.” His voice caught slightly, and he choked past it. “Feels like...I dunno, like I’m making up for the pain I either caused, or failed to prevent, while I was serving.”

Sherlock’s dark brows drew together, true concern shining in his pale eyes. “John, trauma--even PTSD--can be recovered from. Many soldiers come back and resume normal relationships, renew old bonds, or establish new ones. It often helps to meet and interact with former comrades. Have you considered doing so?”

God, he made it seem to straightforward, and yet he didn’t sound nearly as condescending or obnoxious as any therapist, or John’s commanding officer, or his bloody sister. He glanced away, wishing somehow that Sherlock’s assuring voice really could make it all that simple.

“No comrades left,” he said at last, when he was sure his voice wouldn’t betray him. “My whole team was killed off.”

His heart stuttered when he felt those cool fingers again, closing around his chin this time, turning his face and forcing him to meet Sherlock’s gaze. He felt utterly eviscerated as his face was examined.

Sherlock’s voice was very quiet. “Survivor’s guilt?”

And for some reason, it was as if he had never really confronted that possibility. His stomach twisted with discomfort. “Something like that.”

The dark-haired man didn’t pull away, his hand still grasping John’s jaw, and for one utterly bizarre moment, John wondered if Sherlock was going to kiss him.

Then Sherlock stepped back, and the doctor was left feelings slightly winded, wondering when the hell things had gotten so tense and somber. He sucked in a breath, looking up as Sherlock eased his coat on with cautious movements, then wrapped his scarf snuggly around his neck. John felt his heart constrict. “Will you be back?” he asked quietly.

Hand on the door knob, Sherlock paused, and looked back at him with a smile. It was a real smile, promising, but not revealing. And then he tugged the door open, and walked out.

Left alone in the small, rather too bright exam room, John looked down at Stamford, who had napped disinterestedly through the entire evening. Now the dog looked up at his master, and he whined as if in inquiry. John laughed softly, shaking his head bemusedly at his companion. “Your guess is as good as mine, mate,” he told the dog.

He was still smiling when he returned to his office and sat back down to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -[Alice Cooper's "Poison" will be the official song of chapter 7]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]
> 
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme. Here. Have a sexy visual: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuuZIN0OlpI&list=PL5S2Z5o-GHO6XZCe5P_vcpXG0zjZwxW5f&index=10


	4. You're Not the Type (Can't Get Enough)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates his interest in John. John analyzes his fascination with Sherlock. Both reach positive conclusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give some insight into Sherlock's brain for once. Also, as I write I see it screaming off the page at me that this is not the most in-character John ever. But to fall in love with such a dark Sherlock, I think he really can't be, you know?
> 
> Tbh, they're both being 110% influenced by how much I enjoyed the character development in series 3. John seems so much more direct or aggressive, and borderline darker, and I loved it. And Sherlock has more heart, it seems. Really, I loved series 3.

Sherlock Holmes did not consider himself a stalker, but to be fair, there were probably quite a few things that others would call him, and he would disagree. A monster, probably. A freak, certainly; his heightened sense of observation, and subsequent habit of voicing deductions, had often earned him that. It wasn't his fault that people always looked, but never _saw._

And perhaps some would call this stalker behavior, if they found him sitting in the coffee shop that directly faced the small clinic where John Watson worked, sipping a black coffee and observing the man through the front window of the clinic. It wasn't the best vantage point, because the glass pane only afforded him a view of the greeting desk, and John was hardly stationary. But it was more comfortable than loitering around directly outside the door--and he wasn’t prepared for John to see him again just yet.

He supposed he could just hack into the clinic's security cameras and monitor John from the comfort of his own home, but where was the intrigue in that? Besides, he'd needed to get out for some air. The flat that he shared with his partner was a place he liked to keep disconnected from the work, to some degree.

Another glimpse of John through the wide front window gave him pause, his eyes swiftly tracking the confident, if mechanical, motions of the doctor who had captured his interest. That was high praise indeed, from Sherlock Holmes. People were dull and predictable at best--deceitful or manipulative at worst.

That did seem to explain why he'd finally surrendered his rather impressive genius (and that was him being modest) to the whims of a man who was known to the outside world only as "the Spider," with the self-chosen label of a consulting criminal. Sherlock found it a little pretentious, but at least the work was diverting.

And then, there was John Watson. Despite his ordinary appearance, his predictable life story, his perfectly common line of work...he fascinated Sherlock. It was almost irritating. His eyes narrowed, following John as he disappeared back down the hall toward his office.

Sherlock's mobile beeped in his pocket, and he fished it out with a cursory glance at the text message.

**Stop undressing him with your eyes and take him on a fuckin' date, if you're so in love. JM.**

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help his smirk. His business partner was, undoubtedly, the oddest and most mercurial human being he had ever encountered. Leaning back leisurely, he replied. **Stop hiding and have a damn coffee. SH.**

Jim Moriarty appeared as if from the air, dropping into the seat opposite Sherlock with a dramatic sigh. An imperious wave of his hand had the waitress shuffling over, the wariness in her expression making Sherlock suppress a harsh chuckle. Most people had a distinct sense of unease when Jim was anywhere near them. An unlucky few had dealt personally with the Spider, and his dark side was not something to be taken lightly.

Jim ordered a latte, giving the poor girl a rather feral smile that sent her scurrying. Sherlock snorted, finishing off his own coffee. "I shan't be able to return if you terrorize the staff, you know," he said drily. Jim just flashed him his most charming smile, the one reserved for people whom the psychopath happened to find interesting. It was the smile that had initially captured Sherlock's attention, once upon a time, before he had sold his soul to the devil.

They sat in companionable silence, and Sherlock had just relaxed again when John reappeared in the lobby of the clinic. Jim followed his gaze, laughing softly as he spied the doctor. Tilting his sunglasses down his nose, he gave the man a thorough once over, them winked at Sherlock as he sat back, pushing his Ray Bans back into place over his unnerving black eyes. "He's certainly cute enough, I suppose," he offered, in his usual mockingly sing-song tone.

Sherlock just let his lip curl in derision. That was certainly not what his interest was about, as his partner knew and understood quite well.

Jim chuckled, accepting his latte from the still visibly nervous waitress, and absently mixing in a small splash of cream. His eyes following the swirls of white-in-brown with an intense kind of appreciation. Taking a sip, he gave Sherlock a measured look over the rim of the aviators.

"You know, though, how it will inevitably end, don't you?"

Sherlock glanced at him, then back across the road. "Doesn't have to."

"Mm. Good luck with that dream, my dear. I can't imagine that one getting his hands dirty."

"He was a soldier," Sherlock pointed out, but he already knew what Jim would say to that.

"Exactly. They follow _rules_."

Sherlock didn't offer a reply, because he didn't have one. He was quite certain that Jim was right in this case; John was a good man, and good men didn't fall into the kind of life that had so easily seduced an overactive, amoral being like Sherlock Holmes. Still, he could wish. He certainly wished he could examine John Watson a little more closely. And intimately. He half-smiled, mentally closing the door on his fantasies, locking them in their own secret space in his mind palace.

Jim's mobile trilled softly with a text, and when he read it he hopped up, smiling happily. It was such an oddity to see him look genuinely content about something, rather than manic, or exhilarated by chaos. But, knowing the cause, Sherlock didn’t really mind being pleased for his partner.

"Well, my dear, I am off--my boy is waiting, good dog that he is. I've been denying him this week, he was a little too independent last month. Needed to be out in his place. But," Jim's eyes lit up up, in a way that only one thing could provoke. "--tis time for his reward." He looked across the road at where John was still visible, talking to the brunette doctor whose name neither of them had bothered learning. "I've my concerns, and you know that--but I do hope he works out for you, darling."

Sherlock nodded his thanks, since those words were about the closest to _sweet_ that Jim would ever get. Theirs was an odd friendship.

He stole the rest of Jim's latte, smiling as he watched his partner trot away, an undeniable bounce in his step as he went to meet his lover. Moran had been an unexpected addition to their little empire, an ex-military sniper with no rules; exceptional dedication to whatever master he chose; and a rather intense need to satisfy Jim's every desire, in and out of the bedroom.

Mouth tugged up in a thoughtful smile, Sherlock turned his gaze back to where John was filing paperwork, wondering.

***

Work in the clinic had always been a little too quiet for John, too safe; it was simply a way to put his hands to work and keep his mind still, a means of staying busy in a city where he no longer fit in quite right. Before he’d enlisted, he had felt much more connected with the world around him. He had enjoyed people, spent his weekends at pubs watching football and drinking pints and flirting harmlessly with strangers. His medical training had been a life-long dream achieved, and he had worked for a short time in a few different hospitals, before he had decided to apply for work as an army doctor.

During the months he had spent in boot camp, and overseas, training with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, it had been good. He had embraced the physical challenge, savored the camaraderie and loyalty of being a part of something so powerful, and he had truly loved being able to devote his medical skills to something so incredibly valuable. He had been proud of his work, and his life.

Then they were all killed, in a devastating explosion that John himself had only survived by luck. Left alone, with a rapidly worsening bullet wound in his shoulder, and the memories of a dozen smiling faces suddenly blown off the face of the earth, violently ripped out of his life. He had been written off as too badly injured, too mentally damaged by the event, to be assigned to a different team. All he wanted was to forget, to throw himself back into the work--and instead he was invalidated back to England, told to submit to a psychological evaluation that would determine the best treatment course of therapy and physical rehabilitation, and thanked for his service. As if he were no longer capable of serving.

He never did go to the evaluation. Instead he lived off his pension for a few months, recovering from the shoulder wound, and bought a cane when the pain in his leg wouldn’t dissipate. And then he found Sarah and her clinic, and she didn’t ask about the military service record or the PTSD diagnosis or the invalidation that would have appeared on his background check, and suddenly he had work again.

But now, it was just not cutting it anymore.

John sank into the empty chair at the reception desk, staring unseeingly at the television screen overhead as he contemplated the apathy that had settled in again. It was stupid, irrational, but he could no longer switch off his brain and lose himself in the work--not since Sherlock had stumbled into his life. He was consumed with curiosity, about who he was and what he did and how on earth he kept getting as badly injured as if he’d been in a war every night. John was restless, because Sherlock had brought back the adrenaline and chaos, and the mind-quieting, blood-quickening energy that he had only ever experienced during battle.

The TV screen flickered to a priority report, with the announcer describing the recent outbreak of particularly violent crimes in the city. There had been an increase in disappearances in the last several months, and many of the abduction victims had been turning up almost immediately--brutally tortured and murdered. The emerging pattern, according to the anchorman, was a pretty clear indication that there was a new serial killer on the loose.

John frowned, leaning forward to study the crime scene photographs that the police had allowed to be released. These were just the “clean” ones, demonstrating some of the injuries the victims had, nothing too gory or graphic, but John was still fascinated. The cuts were exceptionally done, almost surgical in their application; done by skilled hands, inflicted to achieve a result, not simply to curb a sadistic urge.

John’s mind jumped to Sherlock laughing, teasingly calling him a sadist when he had poked the bullet wound in the man’s side. His gaze flickered back to the screen, to the perfect lacerations and amputations being references on the news report. He remembered further back, his very first glimpse of Sherlock, trying to bandage his own arm. Or the way he had critically evaluated the knife wound on his leg, calling it messy.

Somehow John knew, with no idea of how he possibly could, that Sherlock would know exactly what he was doing if he chose to take someone apart with a blade. He listened to the announcer describe the way that several of the victims had been killed, their heads removed in a manner that would have kept them alive until the last moment. John knew he would normally be repulsed, horrified by the cruelty being depicted, but he could not help the small shiver of interest he felt, imagining Sherlock standing over the restrained body of his victim, hands perfectly steady as he cut into the flesh.

John ran a quick mental catalogue of the injuries he had so far repaired or observed on Sherlock’s body, and it only fueled the sick fantasy unfolding in his head. If Sherlock was involved in these abductions and murders, then no doubt he would encounter resistance, a victim fighting back before they were subdued, either by drugs or restraints. Perhaps someone had broken free, tried to run, and when Sherlock caught them, they wrestled the gun free, dislocating his finger and managing to fire at him--but too close, he could have shoved their hand away, and the bullet would just graze his shoulder. He would disarm his opponent, discarding the gun. The victim might go for a knife then, whether it was his or Sherlock’s, and try desperately to stab--but no, Sherlock would kick him off, not even noticing the weapon catching on his leg, adrenaline overwhelming the pain signals in his brain as he snatched the knife away, pinned the man’s arms, hold him down until someone could get a syringe to him.

The fantasy ground to a bit of a halt there, because John couldn’t envision who might be helping Sherlock. But more than that, he was shocked at himself; sitting in the empty lobby, mapping out a possible scene in which Sherlock was kidnapping these people who John knew nothing about...stripping away their defenses, and then dissecting them, body and mind.

John’s hand was shaking violently. He hadn’t experienced tremors since the first weeks he’d been back, unable to do much beyond take pain medication and walk, slowly, trying to convince himself that his leg was not in agony. With every passing day, with every piece of bad news about his condition ( _Limp won’t stop. Shoulder permanently scarred. Official diagnosis, PTSD. Can’t work again without therapeutic clearance, no buts, just go, fine then, don’t_ ), his frustration had mounted, and his fingers would tremble so badly he couldn’t even hold a damn pen stable.

And here it was, again, his fingers spasming on the desktop, and he knew it wasn’t anxiety or pain. He knew that with certainty, because he was also suddenly hyper-aware of the heat pooling low in his belly, and the hot spikes of arousal that were trickling down his spine, making his legs draw instinctively closer together in an attempt to not give away just how hard he had become.

Fuck.

Knowing what had caused his reaction, his mind filled once more with the mental picture of Sherlock being the one committing these murders; his shirtsleeves rolled up, his eyes manically bright and focused as he worked, that playful little smirk in place as he questioned his victim, extracting the information he desired--before ending the life of the poor bastard who had stumbled into his merciless hands.

Why in God’s name that was an attractive thought, John could not even begin to explain. He wasn’t insane; he wasn’t psychotic or cruel, and he had no desire to hurt anyone.

And yet just the idea of Sherlock, this man whose last name he didn’t even know, who he had come to associate with secrecy and blood and steel, being such a monster--and there was no denying that much, what John was fantasizing about was monstrous--he couldn’t even make himself feel ashamed of how bloody enticing he found that.

There was definitely something wrong with him.

He wanted to erase the images, to forget it and pretend that his feelings were only those of a doctor and a good man, trying to help someone clearly leading a troubled life. But he knew better. It was not that he wasn’t also a good man, but he knew that there was more to it. It was a kind of addiction, the darkness that Sherlock represented. It was danger, and in that, he knew, lay its appeal for him.*

And there was no way he was going to be able to turn his back on it.

Somehow he knew that he would see Sherlock again that night. This time, when the tall figure stepped into view on the security camera screen, and the buzzer rang once, briefly, John was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yep yep yep, tis is a near-perfect paraphrase of Sherlock's analysis of John+danger as said in the living room of 221B in "His Last Vow." I LOVED it.
> 
>  
> 
> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -[Alice Cooper's "Poison" will be the official song of chapter 7]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]
> 
> NEW:  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]


	5. Let Your Body Say (And Then Begin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that escalated quickly.
> 
> Or: from tension to porn in ten seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lookit that, you get two chapters today. My last semester of college is shaping up to be ridiculously easy, so I'm feeling writer-ish. Enjoy.
> 
> And I think I put another nearly-direct series 3 reference in there, somewhere.

This time, John simply turned off the security cameras. He had gotten tired of the process of corrupting the data from nights Sherlock had come, and he didn’t want Sarah to think she had to buy some expensive new system. And then to further what already felt like ridiculous overkill, he had recorded the footage from nights he didn’t stay late, so he could simply copy it into the files that Sarah would briefly review and then delete the next morning. It didn’t take much more than that to cover their tracks.

When he opened the door this time, Sherlock was standing almost on the doorstep, hands in his coat pockets, and a half-smirk on his shadowed features. From the confidence in his posture, John assumed he wasn’t badly injured, which made this...a social call? Bewildered and excited, he stepped aside, letting the taller man slip past him. The door was closed and locked behind them, and the lights were flipped off as they made their way to John’s office.

Sherlock grabbed a plastic chair from the hall, dragging it in and dropping it beside John’s own. He sat with an air of relief, as if he’d been waiting all day to relax and see John. The doctor himself moved more slowly, closing the office door--Stamford gave him a reproachful look from where he was lying on the hall carpet, but John ignored him--and taking a seat as well.

The dark-haired man was watching him with a polite sort of interest, as if John was a puzzle he felt like solving. “Hello again,” he said at last, and his voice was somewhat lower than usual, more sensual. John repressed the shiver that rippled down his spine, and smiled at him.

“Hello, yourself,” he returned, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, pretending not to notice how Sherlock’s pale eyes tracked the motion, sweeping over his body swiftly. John cast about, wanting something, anything, to distract his thoughts from going down that path. Not yet, at least.

“You’re looking surprisingly intact, tonight,” he said at last, his tone playful, and he was relieved when Sherlock cracked a grin, accepting the teasing. “No new injuries for me to patch up, then?”

Sherlock leaned back as well, tugging off his black leather gloves and pocketing them. “No, it was a rather quiet night for me, no dragons to slay.” He glanced down, and John followed his gaze, noticing right before Sherlock spoke again. “Well, I did manage to bruise my knuckles rather impressively in a bit of a consensual wrestling match, if you wouldn’t mind taking a look at those,” he said, holding up his hands, which were indeed a little battered around the fingers.

John made a tsking sound, more laughing than scolding, and accepted the outstretched hands--Sherlock’s skin was so smooth and cool, it still startled him a little to feel it. He inspected the bruises clinically, keeping his evaluation objective just for a moment. “No breaks, no permanent damage,” he said at last, but he waited few seconds longer to release his gentle hold on those lovely hands, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

When he did let go, John gestured at the bottom drawer of his desk, watching as Sherlock slipped his hands back into his coat pockets, as if preferring to conceal his bruises. “Care for a drink?” John offered. “I keep a bottle here...not for when I’m working, obviously, but there are sometimes nights like this.”

“What, you often have visitors come by for a drink at your office?” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled. “My, my, Dr. Watson.”

John snorted, fetching the bottle of whiskey, and the lone glass tumbler he kept beside it. “Only have one glass, sorry,” he said, and it was half-questioning, wondering whether it would seem too strange for them to share. Sherlock nodded his acceptance, unperturbed, and John smiled, pouring a full glass.

He took a sip, welcoming the buzzing warmth of the liquor, then handed it over, noticing that Sherlock drank from the same side he had, his lips lingering along the edge of the glass, where John’s had touched it. He shivered again, and smiled gratefully when Sherlock promptly handed the whiskey back, the only indication that he had noticed John’s response to his actions.

Whether it was the new, more intimate atmosphere between them, or a placebo effect of wanting the alcohol to affect him more quickly than it really would, John felt a little bold. Keeping his voice light, as they continued to pass the whiskey back and forth--refilling when it ran low--he asked softly, “So, what exactly does a ‘consensual’ wrestling match entail, then?”

Eyes the color of a hurricane flicked over his face, taking in every detail, and then a small smirk flashed across Sherlock’s face, and his voice, when he replied, was light and teasing. “Are you jealous, John?”

John opened his mouth, wanting to toss back a witty reply, but his voice didn’t come. He licked his lips, and a slow heat licked its way down his spine as he saw Sherlock’s eyes darken in response.

He didn’t wait for John to find his voice, apparently deciding to explain himself. “I have...a business partner. Outside of the ‘office,’ we are friends--just friends, or perhaps close acquaintances, it’s hard to say with him--and on occasion, when the day is slow, we share a drink in the afternoon. And we roughhouse, from time to time. All in good fun. Less often, now. He’s got a boy toy, so I tend to be on my own. But it was a good means of letting off steam.” He flexed his fingers, studying the bruising bemusedly. “I’m not really the type to keep my hands clean, you see.” His gaze jumped back to John’s, but he seemed not to notice how the shorter man shivered at his words.

John felt as if something was tightening around his chest, making it difficult to breathe--but not in a particularly unpleasant way. His voice was a little breathless, and distantly he wondered if it was the whiskey. Being related to Harry, he had always worried he might be prone to alcohol addiction, as well. But right now it was lending him much-needed courage.

“Would you say that you and I are friends?” John heard the words leave his own mouth, and he really didn’t know why he’d asked. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to see into Sherlock’s mind, to know how the taller man perceived him.

Sherlock seemed to be considering the question carefully. John would be afraid that the other man was completely unaffected, by him or the drink, but he could see the flush in Sherlock’s pale face, the way his pupils were blown wide, glassy but still alert.

“I’m not a safe man, John.” The answer was unexpected, and John swallowed as he refocused on Sherlock’s voice, on the words being spoken in that low, resonant tone. “If I were at all good, or kind, I would stay away from this place, leave you alone, and let you be safe from me. But I really, truly don’t want to do that.”

John almost smiled, hoping his expression conveyed something reassuring. More likely, he knew, it reflected the vaguely feverish excitement he felt, his heart rate accelerating as he leaned forward a bit, taking the whiskey back from Sherlock. “I really don’t want that, either,” he said softly. “What would life be without a little danger, after all?” He took a long drink, finishing the glass. It wasn’t refilled.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened again, his pupils expanding to almost conceal the icy blue irises, and part of John recognized that it was no longer just the whiskey affecting them. He sucked in a breath, unsure how to push this moment just the little bit further that it needed. “So...are we, then?” he asked. “Friends, I mean?” He couldn’t explain why, but now he did need to hear Sherlock’s reply to this.

The smallest smile--sincere, for once, not his usual sardonic smirk--drifted over Sherlock’s face. “To be perfectly honest, John, I was rather hoping for something more.”

Before John could work out a reply that wouldn’t be too ridiculous sounding--alcohol might be liquid courage, but it was also a tongue-twister--Sherlock had closed the distance between them, leaning in and kissing John firmly on the mouth.

He responded without hesitation, reaching up to grasp the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, tugging him closer as their lips molded together. He let his tongue slide out to tease against that beautiful, narrow mouth, until Sherlock parted to admit him, accepting his almost desperate kiss, and giving as good as he got.

John wanted more, _needed_ more contact, and Sherlock was clearly able to read that just form the feel of John’s mouth practically attacking his. He stood abruptly, and John gasped as he found himself being dragged to his feet, swung around and slammed against the wall. It should have hurt, and perhaps it did, but he wouldn’t have noticed, not when the other man’s long, lean body was immediately on his, pressing into him from chest to hips, grinding against him, their mouths coming back together in a heated, messy, savagely hungry kiss.

The last several weeks of repressed tension and mounting longing and the physical ache of desire were suddenly exploding in his veins, making every nerve ending burn with the need for _more-closer-harder-yes-please_ , and John was surrendering to it eagerly. There were hands everywhere; his own, slipping beneath the long blue coat, tugging needfully at the buttons of Sherlock’s fine silk shirt, seeking skin-on-skin touch. Sherlock’s long dexterous fingers, tugging at the hem of John’s cheaper button down, ripping it open to expose his undershirt, and he couldn’t even be angry, arching his chest forward into the scouring hands, which rubbed down over his chest above the cotton of the shirt, making him gasp as Sherlock’s palm grazed over his nipples, already hardened from arousal.

Sherlock’s lips were at his throat now, brushing under his jaw, his teeth nipping fiercely at the soft skin there, undeniably leaving marks that would certainly be visible tomorrow, unless he wore a bloody turtleneck. John had no intention of hiding them. Finally managing to undo enough of the buttons to expose Sherlock’s collarbone, and a small stretch of the alabaster skin of his chest, John ducked forward, escaping that insistent mouth as he returned the favor, licking and biting at that beautiful white skin, leaving bites that would not fade anytime soon. Sherlock groaned, and the sound reverberated through his body and into John’s, still pressed hard into him, making the doctor shudder with need.

And then John’s hand, running down over Sherlock’s body beneath the coat, rubbed over the cotton patch still covering the point where a bullet had gone through the taller man’s torso, and he hissed softly, just barely, but still enough to halt John, realizing where he’d pressed.

He did not draw back, keeping his body pressed as much as possible in alignment with Sherlock’s, but he raised his hands to the wall by his head, meeting Sherlock’s lust-glazed eyes, knowing his own mirrored the expression exactly. “Guide me,” he rasped out, his voice hoarse with wanting. “Direct me, show me how I can touch you.” He knew the level of control that was offering, and the thought sent a frisson of pure, fiery craving through his blood. He wanted it, he wanted to submit to this man.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with a terrifying kind of fire, a longing that overwhelmed any common sense John might have clung to. “Christ, I could just fucking _eat_ you up,” the taller man panted, and the words set fire to every drop blood in John’s body. He had never wanted anything so badly.

He raised his eyebrows, and that was all the invitation that he needed to offer.

Sherlock seized both of John’s wrists, putting one over the other and grasping them tightly with one hand, pressing his arms against the wall over his head. John whimpered eagerly, bucking his hips forward, the only encouragement he could consciously think to offer.

Sherlock’s free hand dropped, sliding up beneath his undershirt to his nipples, those elegant fingers playing his body torturously, pinching and tugging, and dragging sounds of pure need from the depths of John’s chest. His head fell back against the wall, baring his throat and chest to the onslaught of sensations, and he could hear his own voice, stumbling over groanings and pleadings for _more_ , for _anything, please, Christ_.

The taller man leaned closer, his lips coming up to graze against John’s ear, his voice low and depraved as he began to whisper to him, still toying with his oversensitized nipples. “Oh, God, John,” he murmured, sounding positively as wrecked as John felt. “You are--without a doubt, the most-- _gorgeous_ thing...God, what I could do to you,” he muttered, and John gasped and twisted, sloppily kissing and sucking at the side of Sherlock’s neck, along his jaw, trying to reach his mouth.

Sherlock laughed against his lips, nipping lightly and practically purring as John struggled to get closer, to feel more of him. “And I could do it all, couldn’t I? You’d let me...what, John, what would you let me do to you right now? How far would you surrender to me, how far would you let me take control of you? God, I could do _so much_...I could bring you to pieces, you know, and I think you’d love it, wouldn’t you?”

John was attempting to form a coherent reply, his scattered thoughts struggling to come to some order, but there was nothing, nothing he could say beyond desperately gasping and whimpering, “Please, Christ yes, anything, _anything_ , Sherlock, _please_...”

He heard the sound of his zipper being undone, felt the waistband of his jeans slacken as Sherlock opened the button, and let them sag down his hips a bit. He cried out as Sherlock’s hand slipped in, heard the approving murmur in his ear as his lack of pants was discovered--he hadn’t known, couldn’t have predicted this, he just hadn’t bothered with them today--and then Sherlock was grasping his cock, tugging at it in slow, tortuous movements, alternately rubbing and squeezing, torturing him.

“Will you allow this, John?” That voice should be illegal, panting hotly in his ear, whispering such beautiful, filthy things. “Here, in your office, in your workplace, would you allow me to do this, to get you off, where your co-workers could find us, should anyone decide to stop by...they could find you here, like this, trousers down in your office, with me wanking you off. Do you like that thought?” His grip tightened, became more insistent, rapidly jerking John toward his orgasm, and the shorter man didn’t even care a little that they were in his office, in a public building.

“You love it, don’t you, the thrill of being touched here, in such an open place, by me. You’re so willing and receptive, John...practically begging for it. If I asked, would you do that for me? Would you _beg_ me to touch you? Beg me to get you off?”

John was so close already, just from the words and then touch, and he wanted desperately to say yes, to verbalize the pleasure he felt, but he couldn’t, he was already too blissed out, mumbling nonsensical agreements.

Sherlock’s hand was becoming more insistent, jerking him roughly, almost too roughly, dragging his pleasure from him with small cries and mewls of need. His voice dropped another octave, gravelly and hot in John’s ear.

“You can’t even _begin_ to imagine, John...the things I have done to you in my head, these past weeks. Even the first night I met you, even distracted by the pain of those injuries, barely knowing you, I could still see how beautiful you were, I could imagine your face like this, so full of pleasure and _need_. I wanted it so badly. I wanted to be the one to bring you to this, to reduce you to pure sensation and nerves and _aching_...to control your pleasure, your relief, to feel you throb and vibrate and break apart under my touch. God, so many nights I have dreamed about you...owning you, denying you orgasm, using you for my own relief, tormenting you with how easily I could take you. Making you hard, leaving you that way for hours...days...weeks, even.”

He licked the side of John’s throat, catching the trail of perspiration that had slid down his face, and John cried out, almost yelled his name, his hands flexing desperately against Sherlock’s hold, his whole body taut and ready to explode, his eyes clenched shut as he endured Sherlock’s touch, and taunts, possessing him completely.

“And you _would_ let me, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock’s voice held a note of wonder. “You would give yourself over to me, to this.” His hand on John’s cock tightened again, gathering up the pre-come that was leaking generously from him, using it as lubricant, dragging John right to the edge--and then over, relentlessly. “I would have you stretched out on the nearest surface, John, wide open and begging for it and so utterly _mine_.”

The words, his voice, and the demanding pulls on his aching prick were too much, overwhelming, and John shattered, coming hard into Sherlock’s hand, crying out his name.

For a few moments, they were both quiet aside from their heavy panting, and John’s heart rate very slowly retreated back to a healthy range. His eyes eased open, his breath catching again a little as he found Sherlock staring at him almost hungrily--and proudly. The taller man leaned down, pressing his lips to John’s in a shockingly tender kiss, considering how close to violent his movements had been, just moment before.

When Sherlock stepped back a little, he did not release John’s hands, keeping them firmly pressed to the wall overhead. John didn’t fight him, still struggling to catch his breath. He promptly lost it again, though, letting out a broken moan as Sherlock raised his own hand--still dripping with John’s cum--and began to lick himself clean. It was cat-like and erotic and so fucking gorgeous, John could barely stand it. Despite the extreme sensitivity in his spent cock, he felt arousal shoot back through him, and he shuddered as he tried to reign in his libido.

Sherlock smiled, finished with cleaning his hand, and raised it to cup John’s face, staring intently into his eyes. “You were beautiful,” he told him, his tone allowing for no argument.

John blushed, though he couldn’t imagine why the compliment would be more embarrassing than what he had just submitted to. Glancing up, he tugged gently at the hand still grasping his wrists so effortlessly. “Let me return the favor,” he whispered, leaving it as a question, somehow wanting to maintain the strange power dynamic they had established without saying a word.

Sherlock’s eyes widened almost comically, a stunned look crossing his face at John’s request. And then it was replaced with a look of immense pleasure, and John wondered how many lovers had looked to fulfill Sherlock’s needs after being taken so thoroughly, themselves.

Sherlock released his hands, grasping John’s face with both of his, and kissed him almost bruisingly. John let him, moaning softly as the taller man let his tongue dart out, pushing roughly into John’s mouth; he could taste himself, just barely, a bittersweet tang that lingered on that silken tongue.

As they broke apart, Sherlock met his gaze, and quietly panted out, “Yes, John.”

His fingers were shaking from pleasure and anticipation, his mind befuddled from the bliss of his own orgasm. John had just managed to figure out the button of Sherlock’s trousers, and was tugging them open, when outside the office, they heard the distinct sound of the back door slamming closed. John froze, wracking his brain and unable to remember hearing anyone break the window, or turn a key in the lock.

And then an unfamiliar male voice rang out, sounding more bemused than angry, but still plenty irritated. “Holmes! Where are you, you bastard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -[Alice Cooper's "Poison" will be the official song of chapter 7]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]
> 
> NEW:  
> -"Hatefuck" by the Bravery [official soundtrack to this whole porny scene…Sherlock POV?]


	6. Off the Richter (Better Not Touch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is called away, but don't worry, there will be more porn, later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I acknowledge straight-up how short this is, BUT it's on purpose…I really am just addicted to Seb (Moran, not Wilkes), so he gets his very own stage time, here. PLUS the next chapter is steamy good fun times, and I wanted it to have it's own chapter. So. Sorry? XD
> 
> Comments are love!

_“Holmes! Where are you, you bastard?”_

John flushed scarlet, his hands dropping away from the button of Sherlock’s trousers as if he’d been scalded. For his part, the taller man looked torn between grabbing his hands and putting them right back, or turning to address the interruption. John decided to ease that decision by squirming free from Sherlock’s weight, which was still pressing his body against the wall.

The dark-haired man heaved an irritated sigh, but nodded shortly in resignation, turning away as John hurried to re-fasten his jeans. He was grateful for the way that Sherlock stepped in front of him, blocking him from view as he composed himself. Behind Sherlock, the door to the office swung open.

“Only bloody room with a light on, so--ah. There you are.”

The newcomer was quite tall--more so than John, anyway. He appeared to be level with Sherlock--but he was bulkier, all well-packed muscle, and broader at the hips and shoulders. If Sherlock was a fox, this man was a wolf. His short blonde hair was slicked down, and sharp blue eyes raked over Sherlock rapidly, before shifting past him to latch onto John. As he turned his face, the light fell across a fairly impressive scar, which ran from the cheekbone beneath his right eye, over his mouth, and faded below his jaw-line.

A smirk flashed across his disfigured but handsome face, his eyes lighting up vindictively as he leered at John. “Sorry,” he said in a lazy drawl, clearly addressing Sherlock, though his gaze was on the doctor. “Didn’t mean to be a cock-block.”

Sherlock’s voice was harsh as he stepped to the side, hiding John from the stranger’s view again. “What the hell do you want, Moran?”

The man called Moran stepped closer, kicking the office door closed behind himself and perching on the edge of John’s desk. The doctor took note of his posture, the way he held himself and moved, and the way he kept his eyes moving, monitoring the entire room. John recognized those actions. This was a fellow former-military man, though from the cruel glint in his eyes, he didn’t necessarily share the code of ethics it had instilled in John.

“Jim’s been trying to phone you,” Moran said, his tone a confusing mixture of boredom and anger. “Needs help with a job. The target is proving...difficult. He needs another set of hands.”

Sherlock just sounded further irritated by this news. “And why are your hands insufficient?”

A debauched, carnal grin bloomed across Moran’s features, twisting the scar further. “Mine were a little preoccupied. You know how randy he gets when there’s a job on.”

John was thoroughly lost during this exchange, but Sherlock clearly understood, and obviously felt highly put-upon. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he straightened his shoulders, giving a curt nod to indicate his compliance with the summons. John felt his heart tug, regretting the time they’d wasted drinking and dragging the flirting out before they’d finally kissed. He hated that he hadn’t satisfied the other man yet. If nothing else, John believed himself to be a considerate lover.

Sherlock was tugging his coat back on, looping his scarf distractedly around his neck as he frowned at nothing, apparently already lost in thought about whatever job it was he going to help on. John swallowed awkwardly when he saw the other man, Moran, throw a lingering glance at the rather obvious bruises and bite marks that John had left on the long, pale neck. Even doing up the buttons of the silken purple shirt didn’t do much to conceal them.

That led Moran to turn his evaluating gaze back onto John, smiling in a way that seemed simultaneously snide, and genuinely curious. “So, you must be the doctor fellow he’s been whinging about. Pleasure to meet you--honestly, it is,” he added, chuckling at John’s slight eye roll. “He’s been doing a right job of keeping you to himself.” He gave John a thorough once-over, and the cheeky smile curling at the edge of his mouth hinted that he didn’t particularly mind what he saw. “For good reason, it seems.”

John felt himself flush again, the rush of blood to his skin reaching far below his collar and making him feel remarkably young again, like it was the first time he’d ever been checked out. Before he could retort, however, Sherlock turned on Moran, fixing him with a truly chilling glare.

“Sod off, Seb, you know your master doesn’t like sharing his toys. Keep your paws to yourself, before he takes them off.”

Raising his hands in exaggerated surrender, Moran--Seb? John was getting more confused--pushed away from the desk, stepping back. His eyes were still bright with teasing. “No worries, mate, you know I wouldn’t. I value my skin too much.”

John was more than a little bewildered at this point, wondering what on earth Sherlock had to do with a former military sniper (he also had to wonder if Sherlock was rubbing off on him, unsure how he knew that Moran would have been a sniper), or who the hell his “master” was.

“Sherlock--” He startled himself by speaking out loud, and he could see that Moran was surprised, too. Sherlock simply turned toward him, raising an eyebrow as he waited for him to continue.

“I--what is your--are you with the police, or something?” He was contemplating the words Moran had used, the mention of a difficult target, and he was beginning to think he might have had his entire “criminal mastermind” fantasy utterly wrong. Then again, it sounded like Moran was someone else’s sexual partner, not professional, and he doubted the police would really get away with that kind of abuse of authority--would they?

At his words, Moran laughed out loud, his face once again showing more mockery than humor. At John’s obvious perplexity, he quieted, offering the doctor a thin, surprisingly genuine smile. John had the uncertain but growing suspicion that the other blonde had decided to like him.

Sherlock seemed disinclined to respond to his question, but he returned to John’s side, giving him a fiercely possessive look-over, which left John feeling warm and pleasant all over.

The dark-haired man’s voice was low and heated, meant for John’s ears only; he noticed distantly that Moran did, in fact, turn away slightly, as Sherlock spoke to him. “May I come back to you tonight, John?” The icy glasz eyes cut toward Moran, then came back to settle on John. “I would like to...finish what we started. If you’re amenable.”

John felt himself blush again, but this time it was a good feeling, amazing even, swirling through his veins and re-sparking his body’s interest in their earlier activities. “Uh--yes,” he managed to get out. “Yes, I--I’d like to see you again.”

Behind Sherlock’s back, Moran spoke up again. “I’ll get him to Baker Street after, if you like, Holmes.” His voice was less scornful than before; he actually seemed to be making a sincere offer. The words meant nothing to John, but he could see the contemplation in Sherlock’s eyes, and he chose to trust it to Sherlock to find a means of bringing them back together later.

Over his shoulder, Sherlock said shortly, “Go, Seb, I’ll join you at the car in a moment.” The office door opened and closed out of John’s line of sight, and he heard Stamford offer a low whine, to which Moran actually made a quiet reply. There was no snarl though, so he wasn’t concerned. The back door slammed again, more graciously this time. He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

The taller man leaned down abruptly, his mouth pressing against John’s in a searing, rough kiss that left him feeling weak in the knees. He returned the pressure eagerly, opening his mouth to admit Sherlock’s tongue. He distantly heard himself offer up a very soft moan of pleasure at the feeling of being so utterly claimed by the other man’s dominant nature.

And then, all too soon, Sherlock released him, stepping back swiftly. John slumped a little, struggling to open his eyes and stare up into the surreal, beautiful face that was closing off again, as if was he compartmentalizing their contact for later. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing.

“I will be back. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]  
> -"Hatefuck" by the Bravery [Sherlock POV]  
> -Alice Cooper's "Poison"


	7. And if They Ask Me Why (I Can't Deny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad business and porn. Good combo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I'm so sorry. I had a weirdly emotional weekend, fuck it all… DX
> 
> Anyway, have THE official porn chapter! Well, one of them. Lol. I actually loved it once I got into my stride, I MISSED writing smut, lawdy.
> 
> A/N, so it's 1:15am and I have work at 8, which means I decided not to stay up to re-read/edit this. So if you see glaring errors, feel free to comment them (please comment anyway!), and I shall edit during my break tomorrow! <3

When Sherlock had gone, the clinic fell into an eerie silence. John sat in his office for quite a while, unsure how long the other man would be, or whether he should even bother waiting. The answer to that was easy enough; he didn’t think he could have left even if he was unsure of his feelings toward Sherlock. He wished he could at least text the man, or something, and perhaps suggest meeting somewhere else--but of course he hadn’t thought to ask for a cell number. And he didn’t really want to take the risk that Sherlock might mistake it as disinterest, if John were gone when he returned.

He wondered briefly about Moran offering to take him to--where, Baker Street? Did that mean Sherlock lived there? John had passed that road once or twice--and whether that was sincere. The idea of seeing Sherlock’s private home was surprisingly acceptable to him, despite the probably very real chance that the man was a serial kidnapper and murderer.

John huffed out a breath, finding himself moving to the front desk before he’d consciously thought about it. He flipped the television on, as much for the ambient noise as for any real information. Subconsciously, though, he knew what he was looking for.

Sure enough, there was an emergency bulletin being announced, the disheveled and clearly uneasy anchorman hurrying to describe what appeared to have been the first botched abduction in the recent string of attacks. The target, a man who had apparently been a suspect for a recent string of rather dramatic political blackmail scams (John was curious how the police really felt about kidnapping victims who all seemed to be less than law-abiding, themselves), had apparently broken free of his abductors and made a run for it, managing to attract some attention before being dragged back into a nondescript black vehicle.

Witnesses had glimpsed the driver, however, as well as the man who had recaptured the fleeing man, and rough descriptions of those two men were being listed on the bulletin, along with a forensic artist’s sketches.

John’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, because there was no way he could really mistake the second sketch, the scarred blonde who had allegedly tackled the victim and hauled him back into the car. His mind flashed to Moran, leaning up against his desk and smirking at him, the scar across his face pulling taut as his mouth widened. The sketch wasn’t too far off, actually; John had the distinct and unpleasant sensation of being stared at again, as the uncannily accurate eyes glared down at him from the TV screen.

The sketch on the left distracted him, though, because he felt as if he’d also seen that man before--but as if it was merely in passing, just another face on the street. Perhaps he had walked by him, unaware of the psychopathic tendencies in the man he was next to. Then again, these two were associated with Sherlock, somehow--perhaps John had been followed, or observed, and his subconscious was recognizing the man’s face, even if he hadn’t realized his significance at the time.

Whether or not he had ever seen the man before, John was very much so afraid of him in that moment. Even in a swiftly-drawn artist’s rendition, his face gave away a kind of contained malice that was vastly different from the withheld violence and orderly chaos that John so often sensed--and was drawn to--in Sherlock. If this man was the invisible partner, the “friend,” then perhaps John really should reconsider his safety around the other man.

And yet he couldn’t even bear the thought of walking away, even if it meant contending with the demonic-eyed man whose sketch suddenly disappeared from the screen, replaced by the announcer, urging the public to be on the lookout for the suspects, and to call the hotline with any information. Again, John thought of Moran, coming to collect Sherlock to assist with--whatever all this was. Swallowing hard, John hit the power button, erasing the phone number from view.

There was a sudden knock, loud and authoritative, on the front door of the clinic. John nearly jumped out of his skin, but he had turned on the lobby light, and the TV would have been audible, so he couldn’t really pretend no one was there. Besides, for all he knew, it might be Sherlock, needing medical help again, though he should know better than to use the front door.

One glance at the security cam screen at the front desk confirmed that it was not Sherlock. Two strangers stood at the door, a man and a woman, both wearing casual business suits and looking grim. There was a flash of something in the man’s hand--a badge, John realized. Police, probably. Grand. Setting his jaw, he grabbed his cane and moved slowly forward, letting the deceptive appearance of frailty become his shield.

When he opened the door, he didn’t greet them, instead asking, “Can I help you?”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up, adding to the already rather snobby look on her face. The man, for his part, just looked exhausted. He held up the badge. “Scotland Yard,” he said simply. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is Sergeant Donovan. Sorry, we just need to ask you a few questions. Are you aware of the recent number of abductions and murders we’ve had in the city?"

John pursed his lips, but there was an limit to how much playing stupid would be sensible. “Yes,” he said, leaving it short. “What of it?”

Lestrade looked surprised--and, oddly, mildly impressed--by his attitude, while Donovan looked like she’d like to box him. John was tempted to goad her on, just for kicks. But there was a line between being resistant and being an idiot, so he tried to toe that.

Lestrade was fishing in his coat pocket, and then suddenly he was holding out two glossy, high-resolution photographs, and John’s stomach plummeted as he recognized Sherlock in one, and the black-eyed partner from the police sketch in the other.

“Have you ever seen either of these men?” The DI sounded wary, perhaps even a little afraid--of John? Why on earth would he be? Unless he believed the doctor was in on whatever they were doing. John let out a breath, his skin prickling with a new awareness of how risky of a position he was suddenly in.

“No,” he answered, keeping his voice the same level it had been, terse but not aggressive. He wasn’t trying to threaten them. He just didn’t have anything to give them. Hopefully that was the message being conveyed. “Who are they? The kidnappers?”

Lestrade was eyeing him a little more sharply, like he suddenly didn’t believe the innocent/impatient act. “Possibly,” he said shortly. “Are you quite certain? We have a witness who says she saw this man--” He waved the photo of Sherlock again. “--approaching this clinic a few nights ago, and the same witness thought they saw him on this road again, earlier this evening. You haven’t seen him at all, or had any theft of medical supplies, anything like that?”

Well, bugger, he couldn’t really admit to the petty theft Sarah had recorded, not without risking them staking out the place. John cast about for a quick reply. “I wouldn’t know,” he said finally, relieved that his voice didn’t shake. “I don’t keep record of our supplies, you’d have to ask our lead physician. She isn’t here,” he added sharply, when Sergeant Donovan leaned forward, as if to peer past him into the lobby. “I’m working late. Alone.”

“That so.” Lestrade gave him another measured look, taking in the cane, and the way his knuckles were white with tension. Hopefully they would interrupt it as pain. “Mind if my sergeant has a quick look-through?”

God help him. He just prayed Sherlock hadn’t come prowling back through the back door or something. “Sure,” he said irritably, stepping aside and letting the black-haired woman through. She shot him a suspicious look, then bustled through, running a quick sweep of the hallways and the offices. “Clear, boss,” she reported, moving back into place behind the DI.

At John’s challenging stare, Lestrade raised his hand as if in apology, but his eyes were still just a bit too intense in their focus on John’s face. “Right, sorry for the intrusion, Doctor. Just trying to keep the public safe. You, uh, you will call if you see anything, won’t you?” Along with the question, he offered a card, bearing his name and his number at Scotland Yard.

John frowned, but took it anyway. “Sure,” he repeated, already feeling the frustration that was keeping up his acting begin to seep away. “Uh, thanks.”

The DI turned away, gesturing for his sergeant to go, then glanced back at John once more. “Take care,” he said, and John could see the flash of genuine concern in the tired grey eyes. He nodded, not trusting himself to reply verbally. And then they were gone.

He closed and locked the front door, turning off the lights, the security cameras, everything. Only the back hallway and his own office remained lit. And then, he waited.

After several minutes, he got his answer, when he heard Stamford begin to whine at the back door, scratching lightly at the wood. Hurrying to the dog’s side, John tugged the door open, using his mobile to illuminate the darkened alleyway.

Sherlock was leaning against the opposite wall, one hand clutching at his side, his face pinched with obvious pain. His eyes opened sluggishly as John stepped outside with a small noise of distress, flinging an arm around his waist as the taller man began to slump forward.

“Come on, in you get,” John muttered, half leading, half dragging the bleeding man inside. His cane clattered to the hallway floor, forgotten, as he locked the door and turned off the lights. This way, from the outside, it would appear that no one remained in the building at all.

Distantly, a police siren went off, and he felt Sherlock stiffen in his hold. “It’s alright,” he murmured, depositing the dark-haired man into his own chair, reflexively stroking back the thick curls from his face, which was paler than usual, and shining with perspiration. “They don’t know you’re here, no one will find you. You’re alright, you’re safe. Let me see your side, alright? Come on, luv, move your hand. Let me see.”

Still moving slowly, clearly in agony, Sherlock let him tug away the blood-soaked scarf and coat, exposing his soaked torso. It was the same wound, where he’d been shot, but it had been torn completely open, and then some. His jaw clacking almost painfully from anger, John set to work, struggling to move quickly through the cleaning and stitching. Re-dressing the original bullet hole, as well as the ugly gashes that appeared to be from scrabbling fingernails, he heaved a sigh, leaning back and staring at Sherlock in dismay.

Those beautiful eyes were fixed on him, fuzzy with pain, but bright with something akin to wonder. “Why did you lie to the police for me?” he asked, and his voice was so soft, so awed.

John swallowed, wondering how on earth Sherlock could have believed he wouldn’t lie to anyone to protect him now. He took a deep breath. That wasn’t really the explanation.

“I don’t know a bloody thing about what they want with you,” he said carefully. “I don’t know who you are, or what you might have done, or whether you’re guilty of whatever they were hunting you for.” Another distant siren, making him pause; they both knew what he’d just said wasn’t true, but Sherlock had never admitted it to him, so he didn’t feel like a liar. “And I’m not about to turn on someone who I--”

He stopped, choking off the words as Sherlock stiffened slightly, waiting for him to finish that sentence. John cleared his throat. “I’m not turning someone in when I don’t know at all if they’re guilty.”

The taller man smirked, ever so slightly, and it seemed to bring a little color back into his cheeks. “John,” he whispered, his tone one of wonder. His voice strengthened as he leaned forward, pressing one hand over the fresh bandage on his side--and the other over John’s hands, now resting on his own lap. “What would you do then, though? If I was guilty?”

John raised an eyebrow. Double-checking the tape on the bandage, content he had done his duty, he stood, then leaned down over the other man and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. A thrill trickled through him as Sherlock responded in kind, their mouths moving together in a hot, slick dance filled with the promise of so much more.

Drawing away briefly for a quick breath, John met the swirling blue eyes. “I’d do whatever you asked me to,” he answered, and it really was that simple. “You are...well.” He half-smiled, a little self-conscious. “I’ve been alone a long time, Sherlock. I haven’t felt cared about--truly, personally cared for--in years. I haven’t had anything thrilling to call my own, for longer than that. I haven’t felt this alive...since I was in a bloody war zone.” His eyes searched Sherlock’s, desperate to find affirmation, to be reassured that he was not a monster for this. “I...I miss it.”

Sherlock’s expression turned to one of morbid fascination, a delicious gleam that promised all sorts of pleasure, if John was so fortunate. He had a feeling he was about to be _very_ lucky.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped to such a low, sexual resonance, better even than during their earlier encounter, and God, he had John slipping from mildly interested to painfully hard, with just that one syllable. “John...are you--does it turn you on? The violence that I carry with me--that I know you can see in me?” He leaned up, closer, his lips grazing John’s. “You crave the danger, don’t you?”

John felt himself smile, felt the expression melt his features into one of pure, sensual contentment, and he knew that it was more than admission enough.

Sherlock’s hand suddenly wrapped around the back of his neck, dragging him in for the most fierce, biting kiss John had ever experienced. He moaned out loud as he felt his lips being forced open, felt Sherlock simply _taking_ , with no regard to his utter willingness to give. This was about control, not pleasure. And he was more than happy to surrender it.

John suddenly found himself being propelled backwards, and he went willingly, allowing Sherlock to guide him backwards until his back hit the wall once again--but this time, there was no hesitation, and the end game wasn’t just about getting off as quickly as possible. Sherlock was learning him, mapping out the contours of his mouth, dragging his mouth sensually down John’s jaw and neck, sinking his teeth into the taut cord of his neck. John cried out, his hips bucking forward, scrambling to get his hands on the taller man’s chest.

The buttons of the already-ruined silk shirt tore free completely as both men yanked at it, and John let out a frankly carnal groan at the expanse of pale, muscular flesh that was exposed. Sherlock was undeniably lean and wiry, but he more than made up for it with his compact, solid strength. And right then, he was using every ounce of that beautiful power to pin John to the wall, their bodies grinding together from chest to hips. When John felt the unmistakable evidence of the taller man’s arousal against his hip, he let out a desperate cry, rutting needfully against the hard curve.

“Christ, Sherlock, _pl--please_!”

Long fingers twisted into his short hair, forcibly yanking his head back, baring his throat and making his eyes visible to Sherlock. The dark-haired man looked like sin incarnate, his ice blue eyes flashing as he stared down at John, licking his lips hungrily. John whimpered, trying to buck against him, needing more friction.

The hand in his hair tightened. “John...” Oh God, that voice, it was too animalistic to be real. “John. I’m...I am not gentle. I’m not a good man.” Sherlock licked his lips, smirking as John tracked the motion, his pulse leaping visibly at his throat as he swallowed convulsively, wanting that tongue in his mouth, or on his skin, anywhere. “I am possessive and violent and fairly sadistic, to be honest. I...I want you, desperately, but more than that, I want you to want this, too. Please...don’t say yes unless--unless you’re willing to endure all of it. Everything I can put you through.”

John’s breath rushed out of him, and the last of his common sense forced him to evaluate that statement very thoroughly, because it was truly and utterly madness to do this, to put himself at the mercy of a self-acknowledged sadist who wanted him with a savage kind of lust.

Oh, well, Christ, that was the answer right there.

He tilted his head, surrendering to the brutal grasp on his short hair, offering his lover a wolfish little smile. “Playing it safe is boring,” he said in answer, and Sherlock grinned back, wide and feral, signaling the point of no return.

And then John was being twisted around, flung forward, and he grunted in surprise--but no less arousal, certainly--as he struck the exam table, the force of his momentum making him bend over the surface instinctively. His hands closed over the far edge of the table, clinging to it with desperate hope.

Behind him, Sherlock’s voice dropped another octave as he hummed in raw approval. “God, John, you look...fucking gorgeous, layed out for me like that.”

John quivered with anticipation as he felt the cool hand close over the curve of his arse, testing the flesh with a light squeeze--and when he just whimpered in affirmation, a slightly harder grip. Sherlock reached around him, and John gave a breathless whimper of “Oh, God, yes,” as those talented fingers made swift work of his belt and fly, tugging his trousers open and letting them fall a few inches down his hips.

Instinct made John spread his knees, his widened stance keeping the jeans from sliding too far down his thighs. Behind him, Sherlock growled, his hand swinging down to slap against his arse with a beautiful cracking sound.

The noise that tore from John was wild, barely human, desperate and almost slutty, but he didn’t care even a little. The warm sting of that strike was radiating across the cheeks of his arse, and it felt as if his blood couldn’t decide whether to rush to the surface where a bruise would surely form, or whether it should try to make his cock even harder--hardly likely to be possible, but it definitely seemed to be trying.

Sherlock’s voice was a very low murmur. “May I lower them further, John? I need to see it. I need to see how your skin bears my handprint.”

He might have giggled, but it sounded almost indecently lustful. Sherlock was reading his mind, translating his body language, saying exactly what he wanted so very badly, too. Willingly he drew his thighs a little closer together, groaning in relief as Sherlock shoved his jeans down, ignoring them once they caught as his knees--and then the taller man was shoving a hand into his pants, cupping and squeezing the reddened flesh of his slapped arse cheek, and John uttered a sound that was half incoherent moan, half a cry of Sherlock’s name, pushing his hips back into that burning touch.

“God, please, more, _Christ_ , please, just hit me again...!”

The grip on his abused skin tightened, making him keen. Sherlock bent over him, his body covering John’s from arse to shoulder blades, in order to speak breathlessly in his ear.

“Are you into pain, John? You _want_ me to hurt you?” While he continued to toy with John’s still-smarting cheek, his other probed downward as well, those terrifying fingers sliding threateningly into the cleft of John’s arse, a fingertip pressing utterly dry over his very exposed hole.

John heard the tremor in his voice, but they both knew it was from arousal, not fear. Never fear. “Yes, my God, yes. I mean--” He caught himself, wanting Sherlock to actually understand him, wanting this to be real between them. “I...I don’t know that I’m properly  _into_ pain, like that, but...but this is different, it’s you. I am... _desperate_ for you to hurt me. I want you to push me. I can take anything you dish out, I swear I can.”

Sherlock sounded more than a little wrecked, but his hands remained steady, still torturing the bruised skin of John’s arse, and still teasing at his unlubricated entrance. “I know you can. You have no idea what you do to me, John Watson.”

Every fiber of John’s being screamed for it, demanded that he be taken, penetrated, fucked--and he wasn’t going to disobey the urge. “Then show me.”

There was a split second pause, and then both hands withdrew from his pants. John was about to protest, and then he could only gasp incoherently as he heard the faint, unmistakable sound of a switchblade snapping open.

“Sherlock...?”

His response was a low chuckle. “Oh, don’t fret, John. It’s not for your flesh, I find that...far too intoxicating.” One hand, warmed by prolonged contact with John’s heated skin, rubbed soothingly down his back, making John wriggle with anticipation. “No, it’s to get this unnecessary barrier out of my way.”

Before John could even ask, he felt the hem of his pants lifted, and he whimpered with renewed lust as he felt the cool blade of the knife barely brush over the small of his back--and then there was the sound of cotton tearing, as Sherlock sliced his pants off of his body.

John bucked reflexively, and the knife grazed him again, but suddenly fear was the furthest thing he was feeling. “Oh, bloody-- _fuck_ , that’s--hot.”

Behind him, the dark-haired sociopath merely laughed softly, the sound as wicked as his words. “I thought so, too. But I also notice that you don’t seem to mind the blade so much, John..."

The doctor absolutely shivered as he felt the very tip of the knife, touching down ever-so-lightly in the center of his back, tracing over the knobs of his spine, and following the curve of it down his body.

“Sherlock.” Oh, his voice, his voice sounded so utterly destroyed already, and they were barely getting started. “I--if you--I wouldn’t be...angry, if you did.”

Once more, the other man leaned over him, letting their bodies touch completely as he came close enough to run his tongue along the curve of John’s ear. “I know,” he whispered, and there was something like awe in that beautiful voice. “And that’s why I will never let myself _truly_ injure you. Because you’d let me...and beg me for more.” A gentle bite, a tug of teeth on his ear lobe, and John shuddered, thrusting his hips back against the hard line of Sherlock’s still clothed prick. “And that makes you far too valuable to tear apart and throw away, Dr. Watson.”

The knife appeared beside him, mere inches from where his left hand--his dominant hand--still gripped the edge of the table. John licked his lips as he watched Sherlock set it down, as if discarding it. “Bit risky, putting that where I could get it--turn it on you, isn’t it?” He was teasing, and he knew Sherlock knew that, but the statement did serve its purpose.

Sherlock’s voice was all fire and laughter. “Oh, am I in danger, John? Afraid I’ll have to restrain you, then....” And as John found himself unable to utter more than a pornographic whimper of agreement, he heard Sherlock tug his own belt loose, and then the expensive black leather strip was being twisted effortlessly around his wrists, smoothly binding them in a clearly professional knot. He tugged, testing it, and shivered eagerly when he found it both unyielding, and not too painful.

The other man gave his previously un-marked arse cheek a sound slap. “Is that better?”

When John merely groaned in confirmation, Sherlock laughed softly. “I think you can answer me, still, John, I haven’t worn your voice out quite yet. Is that better?” This time, the slap landed across both his arse cheeks, and fire rippled through his skin. John bit down on a scream of pleasure. “God--yes, _yes sir_!” He hoped that was right.

And clearly it was, judging from the hissed intake of breath, and Sherlock suddenly yanking him upright by his hair, biting hard into the side of his neck. “Fuck, John, the things I intend to do to you.”

All he could offer was a needy grunt, but that appeared to be enough, this time. The hand not grasping his hair suddenly appeared in front of his face, one fingertip tracing over his parted lips, and Sherlock’s voice panted hot and loud in his ear. “Suck,” he said succinctly, pressing his finger into John’s open mouth. “And you decide just how much you need for me to begin preparing you.”

With that mental image fueling him, John moaned like a whore around the invading digit, latching on and sucking noisily, letting his lust take over, slicking the finger with as much saliva as he could produce.

All to soon--not because he thought it wouldn’t be enough, but because he loved feeling something, anything, of Sherlock’s in his mouth--the madman yanked his hand back, and slammed John down again, bending him over the exam table, with his trousers now around his ankle. He had never felt so exposed, so filthy--or so fucking amazing.

The dripping finger pressed in against his hole, and John grunted in anticipation, straining to spread his legs and offer more space. He could feel Sherlock’s heated breaths, panting against his still-red and swollen arse cheeks as the man examined his body. “God, John,” he simultaneously heard and felt, “...you are stunning.”

Before he could reply, or even blush, that first finger shoved hard inside him. John screamed out in pleasure, shoving back to take the digit all the way, groaning in relief as he felt the knuckles sliding through his passage, felt the man’s palm against his body, hot and exploring and so fucking good. “More,” he wheezed out. “Please, more.”

Sherlock chuckled, low and dirty. “More, John? But you only wet one finger. Would you like me to remove it, so you can soak more?” Taunting, he began to slide free.

With a raw snarl, John slammed himself back onto that finger, desperate for the penetration. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he panted. “Please, _Christ,_  Sherlock, just--just use your tongue, work me open for another finger, _please_!”

Apparently that was more than the right thing to beg for, because he got no verbal reply--and then he arched off of the exam table with a howl of delight, as Sherlock’s tongue suddenly speared into his arse alongside the first finger, soaking and prodding at the ring of muscle until it began to loosen.

John was an incoherent mess, his voice going hoarse and slipping in and out of audible use as he rode the man’s tongue and fingers, squealing in bliss as he felt a second force its way in just a bit too soon, burning, but so fucking good--and then a third replaced that wicked tongue, and John was moaning and screaming Sherlock’s name, begging to be given some friction, anything, for his aching, leaking cock.

The hand not fucking into him suddenly grasped his hip, jerking him back a step, leaving him bent even further over the table. And then that hand was on his prick, and John heard a twisted, inhuman sound of raw longing rip from him as he felt himself rocking back and forth, fucking himself into that first or onto those fingers, God, it was too much--

“Sher--I--I’ll come, if you, _please_ , not yet--!”

The hand on his cock abruptly disappeared, making him whimper, and the fingers yanked out of him brutally, dragging tears into his eyes. Hot lips pressed against his ear, chewing on it as Sherlock whispered, “Good boy.”

And then John heard the sound of a foil packet being torn open, and he let out a breathless, shaky groan of need as Sherlock pressed the head of his cock to John’s now-gaping hole, then froze. A sob tore from John.

The taller man held perfectly still, watching John resist the urge to fuck himself back onto the teasing prick. “What would you do, to get me inside you, John?” He spoke so softly, deadly intent in his voice. John shuddered violently.

“Anything. Anything, I promise.”

The head of Sherlock’s cock teased slowly at his entrance. “I know. God, John, it’s...divine. How utterly you’re choosing to _belong_ to me.”

And before John could muster a very affirming reply, Sherlock slammed into him to the hilt, and he shrieked in pleasure he was impaled more deeply than ever in his life. This was what fucking should feel like. The man was brutal, taking his pleasure from the body bent over in front of him, stroking and touching John as much as he wanted to, pounding into him so hard that the surface beneath his hips rattled and shook on its base.

John was shaking, too, his whole body drawn taut and quivering like a bow ready to be fired. “Sher--Sherlock, please--please, let me--let me cum,” he gasped out, loving the violent thrusts into his body.

Sherlock folded over him, lips brushing every inch of sweat-soaked skin he passed. “Normally I would prolong this, torture you further, show you just how much cruelty I am capable of...but...I think I want more than anything, to feel your body pulse and squeeze around me, milking my cock until I fill you with my cum.”

John’s mouth went dry, and he was overcome with a painful, cruel need. “Sherlock?”

The hips pounding into his did not slow. “Hmm?”

“Are you--I mean, have you--are you clean?”

That did cause him to slow. “I’m wearing a condom, John.”

“I know,” he whispered, his wrists flexing against the belt still binding them. “But...if you weren’t...”

Fingers pressed savagely into his hips, leaving bruises for sure. “Yes. I don’t normally engage in this...this. And I get regular check ups. I’m clean.”

John sucked in a breath. “Come inside me. Bare. Please.”

Sherlock let out a groan, his hips slapping into John’s with an obscene, gorgeous wet smacking. “Oh, _God_ , fuck, yes, John.”

For a brief instant John wanted to cry as his lover withdrew, and then he moaned in raw want as he heard the slick sound of the condom being ripped off and tossed aside, and then Sherlock was back inside him, bare skin sliding wetly together, and he had never felt so utterly used and debauched, or so utterly complete.

“Sher--Sherlock, please, please, touch me, _fuck_...!”

“Yes,” the taller man grunted, “ _Yes_ , John,” and his hand closed over John’s aching cock and balls, squeezing, pulling, and oh God yes, right there, and John yelled out Sherlock’s name as he came, spilling across those hot beautiful fingers, and then crying out more loudly as he felt Sherlock slam into him a few more times, and then going still, and there was a hot rush as he filled John, and God, John would never be the same without this.

When they finally, eventually, drew apart, he felt Sherlock’s hand cup beneath his battered arse, no doubt catching the dripping cum. He shuddered, staying bent over to keep as much as possible inside. “Sherlock,” he whispered. “Give me your hand.”

Growling in approval and raw want, Sherlock complied, offering him the hand now covered in the man’s own cum. John leaned forward, eagerly lapping it up, smirking up from beneath his eyelashes as Sherlock’s eyes darkened, taking him in hungrily.

Eventually, they were able to tidy themselves, and dress, but they could barely stop touching each other. John sank to the floor finally, head propped against the wall, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “God. If it’s always like that, I will never need to go to a gym again.”

Sherlock arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow, and John smirked again, knowing he had pleased the taller man with his subtle indication that _yes_ , they’d be shagging again. Preferably soon. Immediately at the latest.

“I’m alright with that,” was the breezy reply. “I mean, you would look rather fetching in a pair of running shorts, but I don’t like when other people eye what’s mine, and they certainly would enjoy their view.”

John snorted, unable to remember the last time he’d gotten checked out at a gym. He held out a hand, and Sherlock accepted it, slumping down beside him. Their fingers stayed loosely linked together.

Finally John spoke again, quietly. “I do want it, though, you know. All the things you were--are--afraid that I’m going to run from. I want all of you--your dark side--even in bed.”

Sherlock’s grip tightened on his. “We’ll see,” he offered in compromise, earning a sleepy smile from the fucked-out doctor. “Sleep, John,” Sherlock added, letting John slide down to rest his head on his slim, muscular thigh.

The last thing John heard, as he drifted off feeling fingers toying with his sweat-soaked hair, was Sherlock’s voice, speaking very quietly as he phoned a cab to take them home. And then, as he continued to pet John slowly, he spoke once more, almost too softly to be heard.

“Above all, I’m going to keep you safe, John.” Those fingers never ceased in their gentle caress. “That, I swear to you. Whatever it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand subtle nods: another Night Huntress reference (though I decided to change the line from "Playing it safe is for chickens" to "…is boring," as that's much more Sherlock). AND Phantom of the Opera.
> 
> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]  
> -"Hatefuck" by the Bravery [Sherlock POV]
> 
> -Alice Cooper's "Poison" [OFFICIAL SOUNDTRACK OF THIS CHAPTER]
> 
> NEW:  
> "Point of No Return," from Phantom of the Opera (lolz). [Porn POV]


	8. Shakin' the Room Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a very unexpected decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay…I actually liked this chapter, which is weird. A/N The most wonderful and dear reader ever pointed out some highly American errors on my part regarding the standards for British prison wear and sentencing. Corrected! Thank you!
> 
> A/N Made some edits to this chapter in light of upcoming plot points.

When John regained consciousness--a more apt description than “waking up,” considering how sore he was--he felt warm and soft, his body limp and overwhelmed by the pleasure he’d experienced the night before.

He was back in his own home, which didn’t surprise him, as he could vaguely remember Sherlock phoning a cab for them. Of course the tosser knew where he lived. _Stalker_. John smiled affectionately as he rolled himself out of bed, going to the dresser for his jeans.

He was also alone, which he had sort of expected. Sherlock had stayed a while, stripping him down and crawling into the bed to hold him close, kissing his face and neck and whispering sweetly to him as he dozed off, but somewhere between the haze of dreams and wakefulness, John knew he’d felt the bed grow cool beside him. He didn’t really mind. Their time together had happened, and neither of them regretted it.

Wandering into the kitchen with his shirt slung over his shoulder, John winced--but couldn’t quite fight a small smile--at the way his muscles stretched and flexed painfully. He definitely felt more than a little worked over. He’d have to repay the favor at the next opportunity. Just that thought left him warm all over. Chuckling to himself, he went to make his tea.

As he waited for it to cool, John meandered into his living room and turned the telly on, wondering if there would be a conclusion to the drama of yesterday evening--whatever Sherlock and his associates had been tangled up in.

And then he was choking and spluttering on his first small sip, as Sherlock’s face--a mugshot, a bloody _mugshot_ \--filled the screen, his eyes bright and focused as he stood still for the photo, holding the tablet that listed his name, and the file number for his arrest.

John’s whole body went numb instantly, but he managed to grab the remote, and turn up the volume.

“...one of the masterminds behind the recent series of kidnappings and murders, came forward early this morning and turned himself in to the police. Holmes, shown above, was able to provide detailed enough information to prove his involvement in each of the cases, and has been taken into custody by Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who has been heading this manhunt over the last several months. While it is certain that Holmes was not working alone, he has allegedly refused to turn in any partners, and is likely to receive the full penalty himself...And in Lauriston Gardens, reports indicate...”

The photo vanished, and John turned the sound back down, unconcerned by any trivial stories. Grief and horror were washing through him in waves. He could suddenly quite clearly recall Sherlock’s voice, whispering to him as he held him on the floor of his office, back at the clinic last night.

_“Above all, I’m going to keep you safe, John. That, I swear to you. Whatever it takes.”_

So this is how he thought he’d do that? He thought letting himself get locked up, most likely for life, would keep John safe?

 _Probably will, to be fair_ , breathed the soft, rational voice in John’s head. _He can’t accidentally hurt you, and his mates won’t see you as a risk_. John snorted, slamming his tea mug into the sink and yanking on his shirt, struggling to locate his socks and shoes. _Won’t they? If he’s gone off and surrendered to “keep me safe,” they’ll most likely blame me_. Sherlock would have planned for that. Right? _Not likely. Why the fuck is he doing this to me? To us?_

John froze, chest heaving as he tried to control his breathing. He did not understand what Sherlock thought he was doing. Everything was going very, very wrong.

He was eventually able to assemble some kind of halfway decent outfit, and he caught a cab to the prison where he was informed, when he called Scotland Yard to ask, that Sherlock was being held in maximum security. But he had only been given that information after he’d stated his name, and a startled receptionist had transferred him to DI Lestrade, who had obviously wanted to say “I knew you were involved,” but instead, grudgingly, gave him Sherlock’s location.

When he had been ushered through multiple gates and checkpoints, frisked three times, and required to sign four different liability forms, he finally reached the main entrance. Even here he was handled with brisk distrust, and questioned carefully about his relationship to the prisoner he was visiting; ”Bloody hell, I doubt you’re interested in my sex life, just let me see him!” How satisfying to see them all visibly flush, and scurry to scan him through.

As a guard let him into the visiting room--just like on movies, it was a series of cubicles with glass keeping the inmates and the civilians apart, and phones in each one--his breath caught when he finally saw Sherlock.

His lover was the only prisoner there, still managing to look pristine even in a dull grey tracksuit. His hair was curlier than usual, mussed from the intense decontamination process they had to run newly admitted inmates through. His eyes latched onto John, a small half smile softening his expression when he saw him. John swallowed hard, glancing at the guard escorting him.

“Do you have to stay here with us?”

The man glanced at him, then away again, his face carefully neutral. “‘Fraid so, sir,” was his answer. Another small glance, and he offered John the slightest hint of a respectful nod. “I don’t really listen to the conversations, sir. I’m just here so he doesn’t try anything.”

John snorted, though he was grateful for the courtesy. “He’s done enough by turning himself in,” he muttered, striding down the row and dropping into the chair across from Sherlock. He grabbed the plastic phone, pushing it to his ear.

Sherlock mirrored the action, but didn’t speak. John took the cue to go ahead. “You arse,” he said shortly. “Why the bloody hell are you doing this?”

Those beautiful glasz eyes were swirling with shadows, and John thought he could see a hint of pain lingering on his lover’s face. “I needed to, John,” was Sherlock’s steady reply. “I am sorry, I wish I had stayed with you this morning--but I knew if I did, I might not have had the strength to make the choice, and it’s...it is necessary.”

John’s jaw clicked audibly as he clenched it. “I told you I didn’t care what you’ve done.”

Sherlock almost smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, it isn’t past tense, John, I still do it every day. And I would continue doing those things...until they got you killed. I can't allow that. So, I am putting a stop to it.” His expression darkened briefly, then cleared. "Please, John, there are...there is a reason for everything. Please, just trust me."

“And your--your partner? That man who came for you, Mor--”

“Don’t, John.” This was said a little more sharply. “I have not turned them in, and do not intend to. Do not say their names. Please.”

John’s fist clenched in fury. “They’d let you rot in here for them? You’ll--your sentence will be doubled, probably tripled!”

The dark-haired man looked down, his face pinching. “It’s a life sentence no matter how you cut it, John,” he murmured. “I deserve that. You can’t pretend not to know, now, you’ve seen the reports, and now you know that I’m being convicted. I have robbed, blackmailed, kidnapped, tortured, and murdered people. _Many_ people. This is....this is justice.”

A small sound, like a whimper, slipped from John. “But...okay, I get that, I do, but Sherlock, what the hell am _I_ supposed to I do now? I...I need you.” He looked up, fighting to ignore the sting behind his eyes, and pursed his lips in irritation. “I don’t want to be alone. I’m not--I’m not going to give up on you.”

Surprise flickered across Sherlock’s features, lightening them momentarily. “Why on earth not, John?” There was amusement in his tone, and also a hint of wonder, just like the first time they met. “I've never been a safe bet for you, and I’ll never be a properly free man again...there isn’t much point in waiting for me.”

John scowled, raising one hand to the window, and relaxing slightly when Sherlock returned the cheesy gesture, their hands pressed together with only the thin glass between them. “I just can’t,” he replied, and his voice left no room for argument. “I won’t.”

 

 

* * *

He was forced to leave fairly soon, as it hadn’t actually been visiting hours, but he was assured that he would be given full access to Sherlock--why, they refused to say--and that Sherlock would be permitted to phone him. So he left, without putting up much of a fight.

Once he was back at home, John set to work, researching any and all connections he might find for Sherlock. The only name that came up was Mycroft Holmes-- _Seriously, what the bloody hell was their family thinking?_ \--and upon further investigation, he found that Mycroft was a high-ranking government official in Parliament.

Not to be deterred, he hunted for a phone number he could call, until finally he reached a promising listing; a private office at a gentleman’s lounge called the Diogenes Club.

The voice that answered was female, brisk, and impersonal. Hesitantly, John asked if he could speak to Mycroft Holmes, regarding Sherlock. After an uncomfortably long pause, the woman came back, her voice clearly indicating her shock as she confirmed his request, and put him through.

When the line clicked, John wasn’t given a chance to begin. “Dr. Watson,” came a cool and somewhat threatening voice down the line. “May I ask what on earth you have to do with my younger brother?”

Well, that was a relief, at least he had found the right person to talk to. John sucked in a breath. “Mr. Holmes, I--I’m sorry. I’m...his friend. I’m trying to find a way--to help him.”

Mycroft Holmes sounded simultaneously exhausted, angry, and bitter. “I am afraid, Dr. Watson, that my brother has dug his own shallow grave with his choices and his errors, and nothing can really mend that bridge, now. He has brought this on himself.”

The connection cut off, and John stared at the phone for a long time before he set it aside, and closed his laptop. He suddenly felt far too small, too tired, and very much too deeply in over his head.

Several hours later, his mobile rang, and when he answered it, a mechanical voice chirped, “An inmate in maximum security internment is attempting to reach you. If you would like to accept this call, press one.”

He didn’t even glance at the keypad to hit the one, waiting for the tinny holding music to vanish.

“John.”

“Sherlock,” he breathed, surprising himself with just how badly he had missed the other man’s smoky voice. “God. I hate this.”

There was tense humor in his lover’s tone. “I know.” An undercurrent of sadness entered his voice. “You’re...certainly persistent, John.”

 _Oh. Oops_. John almost laughed. “Well, he certainly wasn’t friendly. I can’t tell if you’re completely alike, or absolutely nothing the same.”

Sherlock snorted. “Somewhere in the middle. John, I’m sorry. Knowing that you were determined to help me, I think I probably should have mentioned to you that my brother disowned me years ago. I could have saved you the wasted effort.”

John laughed softly, not really needing to reply to that, just enjoying his lover’s low notes. “How long do we have?” he asked softly.

When he replied, Sherlock’s voice had dropped considerably. “A surprising amount. John...I’ve been thinking about you. Wishing we had more...time together...before I left.”

Without a single dirty word spoken, John was hard in his jeans. _Fuck it all_. He bit his lip, moving to his bedroom and laying out on top of the blankets, pressing a palm over the hard curve of his erection. “Yeah, could’ve at least gotten in a quickie before you went,” he retorted, and he savored Sherlock’s low laugh. God, that sound did things to him. He swallowed hard, hearing his own breathing quicken as he continued to stroke himself through his jeans.

“You’re touching yourself to the sound of my voice.”

Well, fuck him for being transparent. “I am,” he agreed, seeing no point in being coy. He heard the sharp little intake of breath, smiling as he imagined Sherlock’s beautiful blue irises vanishing behind blown pupils, curving instinctively away from any guards or intruders upon this moment. Their moment.

“Open your jeans for me, John, I want your cock in your hand.”

A whimper slid from him, soft and sinful, as he obeyed. Was this how it would always be, then? Sherlock taking him to pieces just with wicked whispers in his ear?

“Yes,” Sherlock answered his thoughts. “I will always know how to bring you pleasure, John, always know what you need. And I will give it to you, for as long as you want me to.”

“Forever?” John winced; he hadn’t meant to sound so desperate or needy, but apparently Sherlock liked it, judging by his low, answering moan. “Forever,” he agreed, his voice ragged. “John...can you find some lube?”

“Uh, uh huh,” was all he could grunt, scrambling to grab the tube from his bedside table, uncapping it awkwardly with one hand. He lay back down, waiting for further instruction as he warmed it between his fingertips.

“Stroke yourself, John, slowly. Enough to stay close, but with no chance of coming too soon.” He obeyed, closing his slick hand around himself and squeezing, enjoying the hot, wet slide of skin-on-skin. “Sher--Sherlock,” he muttered, hips rocking up into his touch. “God, just talk to me, please...”

“Of course, John,” was the resonating response. “Do you want to come like this, with me talking you through it as you jerk yourself off, coming to the sound of my voice and the sensations of fucking your own hand?” His tone lowered again, the bastard knowing exactly what it did to John. “Or shall I take you further, have you work your fingers inside yourself, thrusting deeply and grazing your prostate, imagining my cock sliding in and out of your tight body...how shall I make you come, John?”

With a strangled groan, John twisted his hand, getting one finger inside himself with a little work. “How...about...both?” he heard himself pant. “Let me--put the phone...on...speaker...” Doing so, he was suddenly free to slick both hands in lube, continuing to torment his entrance with the fingers of one, and jerk his copiously leaking prick with the other. “Oh, fuck, Sh--Sherlock!”

“Yes, John, do this for me, fuck yourself and pretend it’s my fingers, my cock...thrusting into you, stroking you, dragging you right to the edge, but not yet, love, don’t come yet, do you understand me? Answer me.”

“Of course--yes, Sherlock, I’m waiting--I’ll wait till you--till you tell me to....” His hands were spasming, fighting the urge to finish the task, fighting to obey.

“So good for me, John, so perfect...” John could hear the tension in his lover’s voice, knew that Sherlock wanted to mimic him, to jerk off to the sound of his panting, and his skin slapping wetly, his gasps and moans. Knowing that he could reduce the mad genius to this level was intoxicating. John writhed, crying out Sherlock’s name as his orgasm rushed closer.

“Pl--please, Sherlock, please--let me...let me--come, please?”

He heard the other man lick his lips, could imagine those beautiful pale eyes fixed on him, taking in every detail and element of his lust and need for him. “Yes,” the low voice returned to him. “Yes, John. Come for me now.”

Crying out Sherlock’s name, John obliged, hot ropes of his own semen splattering up across his belly and chest, and he lay there panting, his shirt soiled and his hands soaked, longing for the cool, gentle hands to stroke his sweat-shining face, and make him feel safe again.

Breathing slowly to recover, John let out a soft sigh. He wanted to ask, but--

“Say it, John.” Sherlock’s voice still sounded so wrecked, so wanting, it almost got him going again. _Bloody hell_.

“Sherlock, are you willing to let me try and save you?”

There was a smile in his lover’s voice when he answered. “You are the first person who has ever been willing to, John Watson. And that means more than enough to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]  
> -"Hatefuck" by the Bravery [Sherlock POV]  
> -Alice Cooper's "Poison" [theme]


	9. Your Web, I'm Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more than meets the eye in all of this, but John really isn't aware of that, is he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is becoming a little difficult for me, I hate to admit, because I feel aware of the fact that this is far from my best story. I deeply hope the next ones are back up to par with "Sparks Fly" or "Silence is Broken," etc.
> 
> As you may or may not notice, too, I added a 12th to the chapter count. Looking at my plot, it's extremely Moffat-ian in how it just sort of expects you to read my mind, work it out, or enjoy the mystery forever. And I don't wanna be Moffat. So I will MOST LIKELY add a mini epilogue of sorts, explaining the things that chapter 11 may leave you demanding answers over. We'll see, haha.
> 
> Also, SNOW DAYS ARE AWESOME.

Days passed in a blur, more dull than John could stand now that he couldn’t hope for any late visits from his lover. The work kept him from going mad, but it no longer brought him the state of numb complacency that it had before Sherlock had come into his life. He felt on edge, as if he were being constantly stared at, but he never caught sight of anyone suspicious. No one that he recognized, anyway; he couldn’t help keeping an eye out in case he spotted Moran again, but the former sniper did not make an appearance.

A fortnight passed before he received another call from the penitentiary, inviting him to dial one if he wished to receive the inmate’s message. He hit “accept” painfully fast, his heart rate accelerating as he answered, “Sherlock?”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded strained, but still warm, still pleased to hear him. He sounded exhausted. “If it’s convenient--a car is coming for you, it will pick you up in time for visiting hours here. If you don’t mind coming back. And don’t worry, you can trust the Woman who will be collecting you.”

It wasn’t as if John would consider saying no. “How will I know she’s the one you sent?”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “You’ll know.”

* * *

John could barely stop checking the clock every five minutes, but time continued at its own pace. Eventually, thank God, the minute hand finished crawling along, he had signed out on his time card, and an ambiguous black car was pulled to the curb in front of the clinic.

John paused by the front door, fingers flexing on the handle of his cane, staring uncertainly at the tinted windows. There was no indication given that anyone was waiting for him inside, or even aware of him standing a few feet away.

Adrenaline spiked through him, and he yanked the door handle open, sliding into the vehicle.

Seated beside the opposite window, the woman who turned to meet his gaze was at once the most intimidating, and yet alluring woman he had ever encountered. Her clothing, hair, and makeup were immaculate; she was a swirl of both muted and dramatic tones, of Alexander McQueen white, Louboutin red on black, Borghese blue and berry red, with notes of Chopard perfume gracing the air. She wore her dark hair up in a rather strict manner, but it didn’t diminish the leashed heat that simmered in her smoky eyes as she smiled over at him with sincere politeness and curiosity.

“Adler,” she greeted him, offering one porcelain white hand, which he shook carefully. “Irene Adler.” Her gaze skimmed the screen of the mobile still in her other hand, then returned to his face, a coy little smirk tugging at one side of her smile, giving it a predatory edge. “But where others can hear you, please refer to me as the Woman, for security purposes.”

Well, that explained Sherlock’s word choice.

“John Watson,” he muttered, and the _I-know-that_ smile she flashed him was too sweet, like she was trying to be gentle with him.

They drove in silence a short while, before John glanced over at the Woman--she had set her mobile aside, and was now gazing absently out the window, drumming her immaculately painted red nails on the black paneling of the door handle--and cleared his throat slightly.

“So. Do you, uh, work with Sherlock?”

Her eyes slid over to him, taking him in with the same sort of calculating, thoughtful evaluation he had gotten used to from Sherlock himself. She was still smiling, but her fingers had gone still on the door handle.

“In a way.” One leg crossed gracefully over the other, she checked her mobile again, and then resettled. “As you know, he has a business network that he answers to. I am...business adjacent with he and his partner, if you will.”

John frowned, suddenly tense. “Oh.”

She looked at him again, surprised by the tone of the single word, and understanding flashed across her face. Concern crinkled around her eyes, aging her the slightest degree. “Oh, no, Dr. Watson, understand, I do not answer to the Spider.” At his blank look, she gave a delicate one-shouldered shrug. “That’s what people call his partner. I don’t serve that individual. Or anyone, for that matter. I am, shall we say, an independent contractor. And I often help Sherlock Holmes.”

John let out a breath, not sure what reply was expected of him. “Okay.” Another moment of silence passed, and then he tried again with the small talk. “Do you. Know Sherlock well?”

The Woman chuckled, her frosty eyes glittering as she regarded him with a rather feral smile. “Well enough, as anyone can with that man. I admire him. That’s motivation enough to me to stick around.”

“Admire him? For his...business skills, or--?”

“No.” Sadness flared in her eyes for a heartbeat, then vanished. “I was like him once. But I lacked his strength. I see him hold tight to that, even now. And I admire him for that.” Her gaze slid out the window again, her a wall closing behind her eyes. “I’m hoping to make up for my own failures, now. Which is why...we’re here.”

Thoroughly confused, John looked past her and made a startled sound of acknowledgment when he saw the prison looming before them.

Irene guided him with purposeful steps through the first several doorways, but instead of directing him toward the visiting room he had gone to before, she took his arm with a gentle grip and steered him down a different hallway, which ended in a plain, dark door marked: Private.

John shot the Woman an uneasy glance, but she merely rapped her knuckles on the door, then waved John in ahead of her when it was opened.

They entered what seemed to be a small office, sparsely furnished, with an unused desk, two stiff-backed chairs before it, and a large couch under the window, which looked like it might be the only regularly used piece in the room. The man who had admitted them was young, looking tired and out of place in the pressed suit he wore; the ID tag clipped to his wrinkled tie introduced him as--

“Knight, Henry Knight,” he said, offering John a nod, but no handshake. “I’m the Senior Prison Officer here--I work right under the Warden, good way of putting it.” He turned his nervous gaze back to the Woman, offering her a quick smile. “Paperwork’s handled. All good, then?”

“Mmm.” She nodded, accepting the small notepad he pulled from his pocket and signing her name on the top sheet, where several words were written out like a contract, too small for John to make out. “Shall we?” Knight gave a shaky nod, shot John another awkward little smile, and slipped out of the office through a different door.

The Woman glanced at John once more, and reached out just once, brushing her fingertips against his shoulder placatingly. “It’s alright,” she told him. “This was the safest way to let him see you. He was quite determined, and as usual, there’s no dissuading that man.” Her eyes twinkled briefly with mischief. “Have fun."

And then the door Knight had exited through swung inward, admitting the one person John had desperately wanted to see. John gasped as Sherlock appeared, Knight following him in just long enough to remove the cuffs before he vanished again. John took a hesitant step toward Sherlock, the looked back at the Woman in breathless disbelief. “How--how did you pull this off?”

Her crimson smile was vaguely chilling this time. “I know the Warden. Well, I know what he likes.” Giving him a saucy wink as he blinked in surprise--he was really beginning to like this Woman--she shot Sherlock a swift, respectful nod, then slid back out the first door.

John spun without hesitation, hurling himself at Sherlock. The taller man let out a surprised bark of laughter, but caught him easily, clutching him just as close, their bodies pressing together, and savoring the familiar heat and shape and pressure of one another.

After a comfortingly long embrace, John drew back, but he didn’t let go of Sherlock. Their eyes met, both still laughing softly, and then the air between them grew more charged. Sherlock’s hands sought John’s, their fingers intertwining, and John’s breath caught as he felt himself hypnotically tugged forward, his body going compliantly limp as Sherlock’s touch began to wander, seeking beneath the layers and barriers between them.

* * *

They lay on the small sofa together in just their trousers and undershirts, their arms and legs tangled to manage in the small space, and John let out a soft, contented sigh as he felt Sherlock’s fingers drag through his hair absently. “Do you realize, that’s the first time we actually started off on something at least resembling a bed?” he asked teasingly, shifting on the small padded bench.

Sherlock snorted, stretching his back out like a cat, grinning when he caught John eyeing the flex and tension of his muscles appreciatively. “Mm. Though I must say, I do prefer yours.” He caught John’s hand as he went to swat at the dark-haired man fondly, brushing a kiss to his fingertips. His eyes searched John’s. “I am glad you’re here.”

John just nodded, not needing to say anything. Sherlock had to know that he’d always come.

Another few minutes passed in quiet companionship, and then Sherlock spoke again, still carding his fingers gently through John’s short hair. “John, I know that you...that you want to save me. But there really is no point involving yourself so dangerously. I am here for a reason, and I need to take responsibility. In a way, this is my means of redeeming myself...if I accept these consequences, then I spare you a life of hell spent running along after me.” His mouth quirked up drily. “Finally doing the right thing and letting you have a normal life, after all.”

John opened his mouth to protest, determined to derail this pessimistic train of thought immediately, but Sherlock raised a finger to silence him, his glasz eyes beseeching. “I really do mean this, John. There is...there is so much in motion around us, things that neither of us could possibly hope to interfere with now. What is happening here is about something much bigger than just us, no matter all that I wish I could offer you.”

John set his jaw, shaking his head to dislodge Sherlock’s hand, and leaning in to press a hard kiss to his cupid’s bow lips. It was a quick, assertive kiss, more demanding than he usually became. “The thing is, Sherlock, that isn’t really your choice to make. I’m my own man, and I make my own decisions.” He caught the other man’s hand, staring into his eyes, trying so hard to understand the hidden message which Sherlock seemed to be attempting to project unsuccessfully into his head. “Sherlock...you are what I want. I can’t give up on you so easily, even with the kind of obstacles we’re facing.”

There was a long pause, and Sherlock’s eyes softened at last, as if he could not quite believe that John was real. He leaned down, kissing John tenderly on the mouth, cradling his cheek in the palm of one large, pale hand. “I can only hope one day to deserve the faith you’re placing in me,” he whispered, when they finally broke apart.

John was sinking into a light doze, knowing that Sherlock would wake him eventually, before the Woman came back for him. He did not loosen his grasp on the other man’s hand for anything.

His reply was barely more than a sleep-fogged murmur. “I believe in you, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]  
> -"Hatefuck" by the Bravery [Sherlock POV]  
> -Alice Cooper's "Poison" [theme]


	10. The Devil's Riding Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head, only to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...when you have previously unimagined free time to write, you suddenly become lazy, and it is damn difficult to make yourself sit and do it.
> 
> Also, at least three, maybe four, direct quotes from canon. Because I can. XD

With Sherlock in prison for the foreseeable future, John was fairly surprised to see Detective Inspector Lestrade strolling into the clinic once again, looking less exhausted but just as suspicious as he had during their first interaction.

The DI paused when he saw John, then seemed to rally himself, stepping forward to offer a polite handshake, though his expression remained tight. “Do you have a mo’?” he asked without preamble.

John shrugged and nodded, turning to lead the way back to his office. Once seated, he leaned back, folding his arms and frowning expectantly at the Detective. “What can I help you with now, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade half-smiled, giving the room a once-over before returning his gaze to John. “I know it doesn’t really matter, now, but I’d still like to know--did you really never see or interact with Sherlock Holmes, or any of his affiliates, before his arrest?”

Surprise flickered through John, but he managed to maintain a neutral expression. He cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. “Why am I being questioned again, if the man’s behind bars?” He managed to keep his voice light, but he knew that Lestrade could see the sharpness of his gaze.

Lestrade gave an awkward half-shrug. “Well, Dr. Watson, it’s on record that you’ve visited him in prison at least once--I assume more, though the Warden didn’t know anything about that. So, you obviously knew him, at least a bit.” Seeing John’s scowl, Lestrade raised his hand in a surrendering gesture. “Look, he’s gotten his conviction, it makes no difference. I just wanted to know.”

There was a long pause, in which John evaluated the weary DI in front of him with none of the cynicism he had adopted from Sherlock, and deemed him safe enough. “Alright,” he said finally. “Yeah, I knew him. I _know_ him. And I believe in him.” John dropped his arms, looking the man in the eyes. “I can’t really give you anything else, sorry.”

Lestrade tilted his head in acknowledgement, giving John another weary smile. He stood and shook his hand once more. “Good luck, mate.”

John didn’t bother with a response, just followed the Detective out to the lobby, watching him exit and disappear down the road. He was rather surprised by the realization that the DI seemed, oddly, to have been supportive of him.

But he was far more surprised when the door swung open again, and Sebastian Moran stepped inside. John stiffened, shock and fear mingling in a cold trickle down his spine, but it was business hours; he didn’t want to cause any alarm--especially since Moran might just react with violence.

Moran obviously read all of this in his face, because he raised his hands to show that he was unarmed, his gaze remaining settled on John’s face.

“I followed the Detective here,” the taller man said, sliding his hands into the pockets of well-faded, battered jeans. “Been tracking him all day, knowing he’d head here eventually. I was supposed to kill you if you exposed us.” At the flash of alarm on John’s face, Moran gave him a tight, rather cold smile. “That was a surprising move, on your part. Why’d you do it? You could’ve given him my name.” He arched an eyebrow. “Might’ve lessened Holmes’ sentence.”

John ignored that, since he knew it wasn’t true. He contemplated how to respond, debating how likely it was that Moran might just follow his kill orders, anyway--but he sensed he was safe, at least for now. The man wouldn’t have walked in here and shown his face if he planned to whip out a handgun. Silencer or not, he didn’t have time to erase himself from the security footage

He found his voice. “I didn’t do it out of fear of you--or the other partner--if that’s what either of you think.”

Moran considered him for a moment, and then cracked a surprisingly genuine smile. “I know,” he replied, his gaze scorching right through John. “I know why you did it.” There was another pause, and then Moran offered his hand--and after a moment’s hesitation, John returned the handshake.

Without another word, Moran turned and left, and John sank into the desk chair, suddenly aware that he was shaking.

 

* * *

In the nondescript black car waiting down the road, Jim glanced up as Sebastian climbed back in beside him, before dropping his gaze back to the folder of data they had collected on the unusual little army doctor who had stolen his former partner’s attention away. His lip curled as he perused the information, waiting for Seb to settle.

The former sniper pulled the door closed, leaning back and crossing one foot over the other knee, bracing his elbow on his raised leg in order to rub a hand wearily across three days’ worth of stubble.

“Watson’s clean,” he said at last, glancing over at his employer and lover. “It’s strange, you know.” At Jim’s raised eyebrow, he tried to explain his thoughts. “He seems so ordinary, and yet...something more. He might actually have been good for the tosser, given the chance.” He bit his lip, knowing how easily Jim got possessive if he thought someone else had caught his attention, and wanting the Irishman to know that his loyalty could never waver that way.

Jim smiled mirthlessly, aware of both what his favorite pet meant--and what he was afraid of, should Jim choose to _misunderstand_. He didn’t really enjoy that game anymore, though. Seb was quite a loyal pet, and he preferred rewarding him over punishing him, any day. “Yes, well,” he said, in answer to Seb’s observations. “He’ll never be given the chance to find out.”

Seb turned his eyes away, staring out the window. “I know, boss.”

Jim waved his hand, and the driver took his cue to pull away from the curb, rejoining traffic. They sat in silence a few minutes longer, their only contact the hand that Jim absently slid a little too high on Seb’s thigh, enjoying the hitch in the taller man’s breathing as his body responded positively.

Before losing his mind completely to his master’s whims, Seb caught his breath, swallowing hard to make sure his voice didn’t crack. “Jim, d’you really honestly think--”

“I _know_. As do you. That’s the end of it, Seb.”

“...yes, boss.”

 

* * *

John had just locked his office and switched off the hall lights, when his mobile buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, but that had never meant much, given how few people he actually bothered to keep in contact with.

“‘Lo?”

Irene Adler’s voice filled his ear, swift and sharp. “Dr. Watson. It’s imperative that you visit the prison again, immediately. It’s all arranged; a car is waiting for you outside, and Mr. Knight will get you in. Just sign with him under my name.”

John barely had time to get out, “Right, then,” before she’d hung up.

As promised, a black car pulled up to the curb as he left the building, the back seat empty and waiting for him. The drive to the prison went more quickly this time, and before he knew it he was being shuffled once more through the door, to the unused little office.

The same man as before, Henry Knight, was there to meet him. Neither of them spoke; John was handed the notebook that the Woman had signed last time, and he jotted down the name Adler on an empty line. Knight nodded at him, then turned and left through the back door. Before it could swing all the way closed again, Sherlock suddenly appeared, practically kicking it shut behind him as he strode into the room.

John sucked in a breath to ask what the rush had been about, but he hadn’t gotten a word out before Sherlock had cupped his face between his pale hands, and pressed a borderline desperate kiss to John’s mouth. It was hungry, needy, and unrelenting, leaving John feeling as if he were caught in an undertow, being dragged beneath the surface of a stormy sea.

When Sherlock released his mouth to breathe, still clinging to him, John found himself more than a bit breathless, confusion and desire competing within him. “What was that?” he managed to ask. “Sherlock, what--what’s going on?”

The taller man’s eyes were tormented, full of frustration, but the hard edge in his expression seemed to soften a degree as his gaze roamed over John’s face. “I wish I could explain,” he answered, his fingers stroking alone John’s jawline in an absent-minded gesture, as if needing the reassurance of touch. “I can’t tell you yet, John, I’m sorry.”

John opened his mouth, ready to argue against that, to insist that they needed to be honest with each other, but Sherlock cut him off with another kiss, just as frenzied, though far more brief. The mania had gone out of his grip. “Please, John--if you were sincere, before, if you truly meant it about having faith in me--you need to hold onto that, now. Please, will you do that for me?”

Something like terror was beginning to bubble up, deep in John’s stomach, but he refused to give it any control. His voice did not shake. “Yes--of course I will, Sherlock, but what--what is happening? What’s wrong?”

Another kiss, another hopeless stare that glinted with an odd sort of tense contentment at the skin-on-skin contact, and then Sherlock moved sideways, drawing John back to the couch with him. They sank down together, and John couldn’t suppress the pleasure he felt as Sherlock kissed every inch of bare flesh he could reach, his lips roaming across John’s face, and throat, into the sensitive dip beneath his ear, then beneath his jaw. He was anxious still, confused and frightened by the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes, but he could not deny his own need for the physical contact.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded so wrecked, so utterly debauched. It was thrilling to know that it was because of him, because of his body. “John, I need to touch you. Please, let me?”

A humorless chuckle slipped from him, and he rolled his eyes affectionately as he seized the other man’s hands, slipping them beneath the hem of his jumper and pressing eagerly into his lover as Sherlock responded, his fingers exploring and teasing the skin of his stomach and chest. “Yes, of course you can touch me, yes, you idiot.” He shuddered as Sherlock nipped gently at the his throat in playful reprimand, letting himself be pushed down onto his back, his legs spreading instinctively to welcome Sherlock’s body on top of his.

The man’s hands were frantic, pulling at John’s clothing until he huffed a laugh, and reached up to help, dragging the layers away until they were both bared, their garments discarded on the carpet below. Despite the intimacy of the actions, he felt oddly detached, as if he were watching from outside himself. Sherlock was almost animalistic, claiming him with a rough desperation that put their first time to shame.

It was as they were fucking, Sherlock thrusting into him savagely, yet clutching at him with tender hands, that John realized exactly why it all felt so out of sync. It was there in the way Sherlock’s hands pressed into his skin, no doubt leaving bruises in the shape of his clenching fingers, and the way his mouth dragged over John’s skin, as if trying to absorb his taste and mark him, possess him, own him. It felt as if Sherlock were telling him goodbye.

 

* * *

For a week following that final visit, John was pleasantly sore and achey, and despite his doubts and insecurities about what was going through Sherlock’s head that day, he couldn’t help smiling, a tad masochistically, at the way his body kept reminding him of what they’d shared. It was definitely worth it to experience sex that fantastic, with someone he cared for so deeply.

But as the days passed, and there was no further word from Sherlock, or the Woman, or even the Detective Inspector, he began to lose his smile. He still felt watched, and he was becoming distinctly suspicious that the sensation was not just paranoia--he also hadn’t heard anything from Moran, or Sherlock’s silent partner, and in this case, no news felt distinctly like bad news.

As a full week rolled around, John had come crashing down, and he felt terrible. Something was wrong. He had phoned the prison, but had been turned down flatly and without explanation when he asked about Sherlock Holmes. He had dialed the Woman multiple times, but every call when straight to voicemail. When he tried the prison one more time, he was connected to the Warden--the real one, who knew nothing of his private visits to see Sherlock--who informed him bluntly that there would be no external communication with Holmes for the time being. Exhausted, angry, and worried to hell, he gave up trying.

It was a dreary, grey afternoon, quiet in the office, when his mobile buzzed with an incoming text message. He scooped it up, frowning at the words **Blocked Number** across his screen. Opening the message revealed three short sentences: _It’s a trick. Just a magic trick, John. None of it is real_.

Bewilderment crashed through him, but he reacted on reflex, thumbing back to his recent calls and redialing the number that was just labeled “TW.” He hadn’t yet convinced himself type out the full phrase, “the Woman,” in his contacts.

This time it didn’t go to voicemail. This time it simply rang, and rang, and rang.

Slamming his thumb on the “end call” key, John swore quietly and re-dialed the prison instead.

Something is very wrong. When his call was answered, John heard himself speaking as if through a long tunnel, his voice shaky as he asked for information about Sherlock Holmes. There was a pause, and then he was asked to hold, and the line buzzed as he was transferred. Normally his call was bounced to the Warden, and picked up quickly, but this time it went on ringing for several minutes. A knot of unease continued to squirm, low in his belly.

And then the line clicked. “Molly Hooper speaking.”

John had no idea who Molly Hooper was, or why he’d been transferred to her, but it hardly mattered. “Yes, hello--look, I’ve been trying to find out where Sherlock Holmes is, I haven’t heard anything all week, and now they’d put me through to you, what the hell is going on?”

When she spoke again, Molly Hooper sounded utterly apologetic and uncomfortable, and John felt sick. “Oh--I’m, I’m so sorry, sir--”

“John,” he cut her off. “John Watson, I’m his--I’m his friend.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, I don’t know why they didn’t phone you--” There was swift typing in the background, a computer keyboard taking a beating. “--You’re listed as his only contact, after all.” Molly Hooper paused, and John listened as she took a deep breath, steeling them both with that inhalation. “They connected you to me because I’m in charge of the morgue, here. Mr. Holmes was attacked by several other inmates in the prison yard this morning, around nine o’clock."

John knew. He knew, and he didn’t want to know, and he was suddenly so alone.

“...he’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Molly Hooper more than anything in the world.
> 
> Soundtrack:
> 
> -"Under My Skin" by Sarah Connor [Story theme]  
> -"Poison" by Alice Cooper [Story theme]  
> -"Damaged," by Plumb [John POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"45" by Shinedown [Sherlock POV, sort of his theme]  
> -"Silver and Cold" by AFI [both, the background song of their first meeting]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Eurythmics [Sherlock theme, slight Jim theme]  
> -"Whataya Want From Me" by Adam Lambert [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Sweet Dreams" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"The City is at War" by Cobra Starship [Sherlock/Jim theme]  
> -"Poison" by Beyonce [John POV]  
> -"I Don't Care" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Superhero" by Simon Curtis [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Try" by P!nk [both POV]  
> -"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" by Fall Out Boy [Sherlock theme/POV]  
> -"Prelude 12/21" by AFI [Sherlock theme]  
> -"Run This Town" by Rihanna, but actually only the chorus, really [Sherlock/Jim theme.]  
> -"Burning" by Garou [Sherlock POV]  
> -"Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson [John POV]  
> -"Hatefuck" by the Bravery [Sherlock POV]  
> -Alice Cooper's "Poison" [theme]


	11. Breakin' My Chains Again (I've Got You Under My Skin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we conclude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I decided to collapse the epilogue into the last chapter, so...tis the end, dear friends. <3
> 
> Well, despite its weaknesses compared to my other stories, I do hope you enjoyed the ride! and yes, there are several more nods to canon quotes. Including John stealing one from Mary.
> 
> I think I'll go write a Sparks 'verse one-shot to fix my writing mood. XD

 

_Two Years Later_

The cafe down the road afforded an excellent view of the front of the clinic, which allowed John to feel like he hadn’t completely fled his duties when he slipped out for a cup of coffee over his lunch break. He sat in an unyielding metal chair in the weak summer sunlight-- _that wouldn’t last_ \--and sipped a black coffee.

From his position, he could see Sarah shuffling around at the front desk of the clinic, still training the new nurse they’d just hired, a woman named Mary. John was suspicious that Sarah was trying to set something up between them; he wondered if she’d really forgotten his coming out to her only two years before.

He knew she was worried about him, but he figured he was long past the stage where he might do anything rash out of grief. What would be the point? The only thing he could really do now was keep on going. Dull business, but he really wasn’t the suicidal type. He stirred his coffee absently, wondering if he should eat something today. As usual, he opted against it.

The newspaper in front of him fluttered in a slight breeze, and John’s eyes were redrawn to the photo taking up most of the front page. It was a mugshot, a face he knew quite well; Moran still made cameo appearances in his dreams, from time to time. He was never quite a nightmare, but his arrival always signaled the moment when Sherlock would leave John, in the dark of night, and that was what made it unbearable.

John sniffed irritably, flipping the page to re-read the article itself. In dramatic fashion, it explained the conclusion of the two-and-a-half-year case, in which a criminal network that had stretched further and held far more power than the police had ever anticipated had, at last, been destroyed.

Reading between the lines, John could imagine Detective Inspector Lestrade’s frustration, because he knew that the papers were using rose-colored glasses on their readers, for Scotland Yard’s sake. He’d heard what had really happened.

James Moriarty, known only as “the Spider” until now, was found shot in the head, killed before the police could successfully pin the list of crimes on him and get a conviction. At first they’d suspected suicide, believing he’d panicked at the inevitability of his little kingdom being brought down, but it was definitely murder. John smiled skeptically. Any man who could have lured Sherlock into such a reckless life...well. He could never have been cowardly enough to eat a bullet rather than get a chance to toy with the judiciary system.

With the whispers of _murder_ now hovering around Moriarty’s death, the attention had turned to the only surviving partner, but it was immediately clear that Sebastian Moran was not responsible for Moriarty’s death. He was facing a life sentence for the charges against him, but it seemed most likely that he would spend it wrapped in a strait jacket. John had not seen the man in more than two years, but from the case proceedings, it looked like Moran had gone off the deep end due to Moriarty’s death.

For a brief moment, John felt a sting of pity, gnawing at the heart he had worked so determinedly to harden. The other soldier’s face came back to mind, the last time he had seen him (though not likely the last time Moran had seen John; it was a safe bet that they’d continued watching him, even after Sherlock...well. Yes). That hasty but genuine smile; the respect that had flashed in his eyes; the handshake; and above all, his words--he’d said, “ _I know why you did it_.” Moran had known something about the insanity of loving a madman.

The article went on to mention the third partner, the first to be arrested, killed in prison, and John flipped the newspaper closed once more, unable to bear Sherlock’s outdated mug shot staring back up at him from the page.

His mobile buzzed on the table, next to his now-cold coffee. Making a face at the glossy black beverage, he checked the screen, opening a text message from an unfamiliar number.

 _Let’s have dinner_.

His hand moved to drop the phone, his eyes already flicking away, disinterested in what he assumed was a wrong number.

And then he paused. His mind drifted back over the last two years, over his complete lack of a social life, his unwillingness to go out, or to interact with people beyond his job at the clinic. The way that life was flowing forward around him, and moving on without him.

He looked over at the wrought iron fence running alongside the tables, where Stamford was lying on the concrete, his head lying heavy on his massive front paws while his eyes lazily tracked the passing people. The dog was getting old.

A sigh slipped from him, and he re-opened the text message and hit “reply” before he could reconsider. _Sorry, who’s this_? he typed, going for a more polite attitude than he’d usually bother with.

“Hello, stranger.”

John looked up, and jolted a bit when he found Irene Adler standing over him, smiling warmly. She was dressed in more earthy tones than he remembered; a dark, loose-sleeved jacket over a light turtleneck, and black slacks. Even her makeup was softer, taking away the militant edge that had been present the last time he’d seen her.

She sat down opposite him, tilting his mug to glance distastefully at the contents. The waitress drifted by, and she ordered them both fresh coffees.

John finally found his voice, though he knew that his expression was still incredulous. “How did you know I was here?” he asked at last.

The Woman smiled, her eyes twinkling as she raised her own mobile. “Tracked the GPS on your phone.” And then her expression grew serious again, caution and kindness in her eyes making John want to flee. “How are you, Dr. Watson?”

John let himself shrug noncommittally, unsure exactly how to safely answer that question.

She offered him a sad, knowing smile, sitting back in her seat to sip at her coffee. They were both quiet for a few minutes, drinking peacefully, and then Irene leaned forward again, giving John a somber, searching look. He arched an eyebrow, and she inhaled, smiling kindly still, as if to soften the weight of her question.

“You were really in love with him, weren’t you?”

A myriad of automatic responses flowed through his mind, but John discarded each as it occurred to him. It wasn’t a question that merited “Of course,” or “In my own way,” or “Who cares, I’ll never let someone in again.”

He couldn’t answer. He dropped his gaze, looking away to stare at Stamford, and tried not to wonder if the dog missed Sherlock Holmes, too. Or if he even remembered the man. Dogs were lucky, that way.

He did answer Irene, though, because there was one accurate reply, which still maintained the neutrality he had worked so hard to build up. “Doesn’t really matter, now, does it?”

Irene cocked her head, her eyes brightening as if that had been exactly what she’d expected to hear. She leaned back, crossing her long legs and taking another sip.

“I do insist on dinner, you know,” she said lightly, nodding at his mobile. John snorted, opening his texts and saving her number as _The Woman_ in his contacts. He didn’t miss her small grin, and he guess that somehow she’d known, before, that he hadn’t known quite what to make of her.

“I don’t really do things like dinner,” he said by way of protest, and she waved a hand airily. “I don’t make a habit of it, either, but it’s my treat,” she returned. “It will be good for us both, John.”

He half-smiled, feeling the brittle hostility he always carried with him crack, fractionally. “Alright, then, if you’re buying.” He paused, then shot her a smirk. “But just to make sure it’s clear, I am still gay.”

Irene laughed, a high, clear sound that seemed to strike right through the ice around John’s heart, and he felt something like actual amusement, for the first time in months. “So am I, darling.” Her eyes sparkled playfully. “That’s not the point.”

He watched as she set a few bills down for the coffee, and seemed to be collecting herself to go. “I’ll text you the time and place,” she said, and John nodded, knowing it would be fine to just let her leave, and perhaps ask that night at dinner, but he didn’t want to wait, not when she was right here--and for all he knew, he was hallucinating.

“What did you mean, two years ago?” he asked, and Irene paused, giving him a hard, quizzical look, before sinking back into her seat. John sucked in a breath. “You told me that you’d been just like Sh--Sherlock.” He stuttered over the name, and they both ignored it. “You said you were the same, but not as strong as he was.” _Strong enough to get his arse murdered in prison when I needed him out here, the prick_. Not the point, stick to the point. “What did you mean by that?”

Irene frowned ever so slightly, her gaze dropping to his discarded newspaper. Almost absently, her fingers traced over the photo of Moran being arrested, and the caption mentioning Moriarty’s death. “Did you follow the case closely, John?” she asked softly, her voice deceptively light.

John swallowed. “No.”

Irene smiled, a trifle sadly, and nudged the paper aside. “Long before you met him, Sherlock wanted out. He was done with the madness. Moriarty...Moriarty was a unique kind of genius. He was chaos embodied. And though Sherlock had contributed to the building, expanding, and management of their war machine for so long...he was a far better man than either of them were.” She paused, and flipped the paper over, hiding Moran’s haunted eyes from view. “Far stronger than any of us, trapped in the Spider’s web.”

John’s mouth quirked up on one side. “You’re waxing poetic, Adler.”

She shot him a bemused look, seeming to come back to herself, and refocused on her explanation. “When I said I was like him, I meant that I also had wanted to escape it all, once. Unlike Sherlock, however, I never had the courage to make the necessary sacrifices in pursuit of freedom. Long before he discovered you, Sherlock had made the decision to face those sacrifices head-on. You were...additional motivation.”

Bewilderment flooded John, and he knew it showed on his face. Irene smiled, the mask slipping back on, the Woman taking over again. She stood and came round to his side, leaning down to kiss his cheek lightly, murmuring softly, “Do come to dinner, dear, I’ll see you later,” before she disappeared.

John scowled at nothing, seriously tempted not to go, but something was tugging at the back of his mind, and he knew he’d only get the answer if he went.

 

* * *

The restaurant she sent him to was small, dimly lit, cozy and unpleasantly romantic. He sent her a warning text, reiterating that he was really and truly gay, and received the simple reply, _Order some wine, John. Relax_.

He caved under the awkward silence of _waiting_ , browsing the wine list, and was promptly forced to admit to himself that he knew nothing about wines.

A bottle materialized next to him, a tuxedo-clad arm reaching out to pour a small sampling of white wine into John’s glass. Before he could react to the unordered delivery, the waiter spoke, and John’s world turned upside down--or perhaps it was finally turning back around, right-side up, this time--at a voice that he hadn’t heard in over two years.

“Waiting for an old friend, John?”

John raised his eyes as if in slow motion, stumbling a little as he leapt out of his seat, staring in disbelief at a very-much-alive Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

_Epilogue_

_I’ve Got You (Under My Skin)_

Five hours, two punches, and an actual headbutting (and the subsequent nosebleed) later, John lay draped across the rumbled white sheets of Sherlock’s bed, panting slightly. He could feel the other man’s body shifting, lightly and evenly, as he breathed, his legs entangled with John’s beneath the duvet. A faint scuffling noise from the kitchen reassured him that Stamford was still sleeping on the tiled floor. He huffed a laugh, taking stock of exactly how out of shape his body was for this particular brand of exercise.

Piercing glasz eyes jumped to his face, and wonderfully familiar fingers roamed down his face, Sherlock’s thumb tracing across his lips and over his jaw. He raised an eyebrow in question.

John chuckled hoarsely. “Just not used to so much exertion. Been a while.” That got a sad little smile out of his lover, and he rolled over to nose against the dark-haired man’s collarbone, inhaling deeply and savoring the salty-sweet scent of his skin.

“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly, and Sherlock stilled, even his fingers freezing in their gentle stroking of his face and hair. John tilted his head back, offering a smile to reassure him. “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock, I just...I want to know why you had to fake your _death_. Why couldn’t you tell me?”

Sadness flashed in the other man’s eyes, but he nodded slightly in acquiescence, brushing a faint kiss to the doctor’s forehead. “To be honest, John, it was all arranged months before we met.”

John nodded; Irene had said as much. Sherlock pressed on. “Meeting you...temporarily derailed everything, truth be told. I almost abandoned the plan. I thought it might be easier to just try and balance a life with you alongside my life’s work...rather than hurting you this way.” His eyes clouded. “It would never have worked.”

John shifted, discomfort sparking through him at the thought that their relationship had been detrimental to Sherlock getting out of the criminal network that he had helped to build.

Sherlock’s arm tightened around him, sensing his unease. “You were the most beneficial change that could have come into my life, John. Unregrettable.”

“I agree,” John interjected, battling his feelings of disquiet with humor, as he always did. Sherlock shot him a confused look, and he smirked. “I agree, I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.”

That got a proper laugh, and then Sherlock pressed on. “I meant to fake my death outside of prison, in a context that Mor--that my partners could find believeable. You might have noticed, I have a uniquely high tolerance for pain and suffering. A petty incident would not have sufficed.” Sherlock rubbed a hand across his face, frowning at the ceiling. “I had originally intended to arrange something during a job, one that I worked on my own, easier to appear to have made a fatal mistake on. After all, one is all it takes.”

And then he glanced down, the heat and desire in his gaze enough to distract John for a good long moment, and he whimpered as Sherlock slid down his body slowly, kissing from his neck to his nipples to his belly button to his hip bones, sweeping his lips back and forth between the too-pronounced bones, his tongue tracing over areas where John had lost substantial weight in their time apart. A low hum, deep in his throat, vibrated against John’s skin, and he shuddered, thrusting up against his lover as his body began to take interest in round two.

“And then I met you, and suddenly, I had someone whom I absolutely had to protect.” Sherlock’s words were breathed against the sensitive skin of John’s inner thigh, and he shuddered at their significance. Without conscious thought, he drew his knees up, baring himself to the other man’s exploration. Eagerly Sherlock accepted the unspoken invitation, ducking forward to kiss and suck delicately at the vulnerable flesh beneath John’s cock, tongueing lovingly over his balls, making him writhe and whimper Sherlock’s name, his fingers clenching in the sheets.

“I had to get out,” Sherlock whispered, before his tongue found its way inside, and John arched off the bed with a cry as he was penetrated, the other man’s skilled lips tormenting him with pleasure and denial. John’s head drifted down, tangling in the impressive mop of dark curls currently tickling him between his legs, gripping but not controlling as Sherlock prepared him once more, adding one finger, and then a second, using his saliva to lubricate his way.

“I constructed a new plan, with the help of the Woman, and my brother...I suspect she felt that she was somehow atoning for all that she has done, and failing to make her own escape, by aiding in mine.” His fingers twisted, knuckles grazing John’s prostate, and the doctor cried out, bucking into the contact, needing more. Sherlock grinned lasciviously, striking the sensitive spot again, preening as his touch elicited noises of pure bliss from his lover.

“The new plan required being arrested, and doing all that was possible to dismantle the entire network from a much safer distance, in hopes that my associates would not recognize my handiwork in their downfall. I didn’t want to resort to faking my death if I didn’t have to; it was unduly distressing to think of putting you through that.” His eyes softened, watching John wriggle under him, torn between the pleasure of his hands, and the importance of his words.

“And in return for my cooperation, my brother would be able to have my...personal involvement pardoned. He wouldn’t do much about the life sentence, but I think that was out of his preference, not a lack of influence.” There was an edge of brotherly annoyance there, and John was startled by Sherlock’s apparent geniality for his sibling.

“But then--oh, _God_ ,” he panted, interrupting himself as Sherlock worked in a third finger, now thrusting his hand lazily in and out, spreading John’s thighs wider to enjoy the view, his eyes burning cobalt blue as he lowered his other hand to his own prick, stroking slowly.

“Christ, don’t-- _please_ don’t stop that,” John muttered, fucking himself down onto the invading fingers, even as he tried to recapture his train of thought. “Then-- _shite_ , bloody hell...then why was he unwilling-- _oh_ , God, yes, _there_ \--to help me?”

Sherlock let out a breathless little chuckle, leaning down to kiss across John’s taut stomach and all around his now-straining cock, still fingering him open roughly. “He was almost certainly being tailed,” he answered softly, giving John’s prick one long, leisurely lick that made the smaller man’s voice break off for a second, his body locking down as he fought not to come too soon. “He could not risk any indication that we were even on speaking terms, let alone working together. And that included offering any kindness to my lover.” Ducking his head, he took John’s cock effortlessly into his mouth, pushing forward until he was buried in Sherlock’s throat, and John shouted out, seizing his hair and gasping that _he wasn’t ready to come, not yet, please_ \--

The dark-haired man slid off with an indecently wet sound, grinning at him, and then withdrew his fingers abruptly. John whimpered, his hips spasming as he sought that fullness again. “Please,” he gasped.

Sherlock’s smile softened, and he leaned forward, cradling John between his well-muscled arms as he nudged between his thighs, pressing himself against John’s entrance. The shorter man accepted him readily, sighing in relief as Sherlock slid in, his lips brushing John’s ear as he began to thrust gently, making love to him, rather than fucking.

“Putting myself in prison was meant to keep you safe,” he whispered, his hands gliding over John’s body, eliciting more sighs and moans at the sensory overdose. “I’d hoped to shift his focus away from you, and distract him from how much you could influence me...keep him from targeting you because of me.” His hips bucked forward more roughly, and John groaned at the quickening thrusts, flattening his feet on the mattress in order to push his own hips up, taking the pounding enthusiastically.

“It failed,” Sherlock murmured, his voice low and resonant, interspersed with heavy gasps. “At least, distracting him did...believing that I was useless to him, and you were indirectly to blame for my new weakness, he had arranged for your death.”

John jerked away, those words ripping him a little too far out of his pleasant headspace. “What the--”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was a whip. “I would _never_ have allowed that to happen.”

John tilted his head back, meeting the stormy eyes, reminding himself that Moriarty was dead--and suddenly well aware of who really was responsible. _Poor Moran_ , he thought distantly. _Best he never find out that Sherlock is alive_.

He met his lover’s gaze, and smiled faintly. “I know.”

Sherlock’s movements resumed, their bodies sliding together and their breath mingling as they kissed briefly, before Sherlock slid his mouth back to John’s throat, alternately kissing, biting, and whispering against the flushed skin.

“Plans had to be accelerated.” Regret entered his tone for the first time, coloring his words with sorrow. “There was no time or means to warn you...I had missed my opportunity when I had you there. I hadn’t realized...I hadn’t wanted to believe that it would be the last I’d see you for so long.” John’s hands tightened reflexively, clutching at the other man, and Sherlock hissed slightly at the pressure, but shifted into it, obviously needing to feel the contact just as badly. “I’m so sorry, John. I had to let you--let you believe that my death was real.”

John’s whole body quivered as he went still, staring into the other man’s depthless eyes, contemplating the two long, miserable years he had spent alone, grieving.

He remembered every night, hours of sleeplessness mixed with nightmares. And he remembered every word Sherlock had ever spoken to him, from his admission that he was too dangerous for John; to his breathless promises of pleasure and relief; to his low, desperate assurances that he would keep John safe--even from himself.

He kissed Sherlock then, molding their mouths together and heaving upward, rolling the shocked man onto his back and grinning against his lips as he pinned him, now straddling his hips, slamming himself down so that he could take the other’s cock all the way to the hilt. Both men cried out, Sherlock grasping at John’s hips desperately, and John groaning as the new angle allowed Sherlock to strike his prostate head-on.

There was a pause in the conversation then, as John continued to ride hard, dragging himself up and down repeatedly and making truly obscene sounds of pleasure as Sherlock fucked into him, grunting his name and jerking him down into a messy, wet kiss. John’s hips began to stutter, and then he flung his head back with a cry of ecstasy as Sherlock reached between them, grasping his leaking prick, and stroking him through to his orgasm.

When John came, splashing hotly across his lover’s chest and stomach, the man’s name was just a breathless whimper on his lips. He slumped forward, tucking his face into Sherlock’s neck, clutching at his shoulders as the other man held his weight up, whispering words of praise and promise in his ear as he continued to thrust upward, climaxing with a soft groan a moment later.

Panting into Sherlock’s chest, John found his voice, clearing his throat once or twice to steady it. “I forgive you, you know,” he whispered.

He felt Sherlock’s lips press again his temple, and he smiled. Contentment washed through him as the other man replied softly, “Thank you.”

When they were cleaned off, John dressed in a pair of sweats he’d stolen from the dresser, and Sherlock in a loose pair of flannel pants and a ratty blue bathrobe, they curled up together on the sofa, sharing tea, and half-watching something about a blue box and bow ties (Sherlock had made it quite clear he did not watch fictional television programs like some ordinary idiot, and John informed him that he would learn to stuff it and let his boyfriend enjoy his telly. That word choice had effectively silenced him, to John’s amusement).

Sherlock was sprawled out long-ways, his head on John’s knee and his hands folded prayer-like beneath his chin, and John absently stroked a hand through his tousled hair, eyes remaining on the screen, though his thoughts were fixed on the man beside him. “So, what happens now?” he asked at last.

Sherlock’s voice was drowsy. “Moriarty is dead. Moran is in prison. And even if he wasn’t, I don’t believe he’ll come back.” There was a touch of remorse there, and John knew that Sherlock at least acknowledged to himself that there was one person he’d hurt by killing his late partner. “We’re safe, John.”

The blonde man paused in his petting, then cracked a small smile. “Assuming your brother doesn’t mess up your pardon on purpose, anyway.”

Sherlock muttered a curse, rolling off the sofa and grabbing for his phone as John broke out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it helps amuse you, too, I picture that very last line looking like Sherlock at the beginning of Hounds of the Baskervilles, diving to the floor in search of cigarettes. You know the one. ;)
> 
> http://media.tumblr.com/30a13e579ef4f869a6f5606d493e871f/tumblr_inline_mjtszov4Ik1qz4rgp.gif


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